


Loose Ends Unravel

by Xena1016



Series: Fate's Unwoven [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xena1016/pseuds/Xena1016
Summary: Blake and Schofield are on what may be the most important mission of their lives- but when they make an unexpected discovery their mission and an evergrowing number of lives are put in great jeopardy.
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield/Original Female Character(s), William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Series: Fate's Unwoven [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839169
Comments: 17
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

If there was any one sound, Schofield never expected to hear inside the German tunnels: 

It was the scream of a woman. 

He jumps out of his skin when the shriek pierces the relative quiet of the bunkers. The tin in his hand sent clattering to the floor as his rifle snaps to where the sound originated. Blake was near the same next to him; his breath hitching as the younger man took a step forward. 

"The hell was that?!"

Schofield didn't answer. He was forcing himself to inch closer, straining his eyes and ears to see if the voice called out again. 

_"_

_Someone, please!"_

The second wave of noise made him flinch again. His head turned, disbelieving, as he tore his eyes away from the gloomy tunnel ahead to look at Blake: who was already moving.

"Wait!" Schofield shouts, his arm striking out to grab the younger's webbing. 

Blake snaps his head around. Fear, confusion, and determination, all-dancing over his pale face. 

"Wait? You heard 'er Scho; someone needs us!" 

Schofield tries to pull his friend back. But Blake has greater strength than he gave the brunette credit fond he wrenches himself free of Schofield's grasp. 

"It could be a trap!" He calls after Blake, pushing himself forward as his friends' form moves through the tunnels. The light of his torch swinging around him as he searched for the source of the voice. 

It made no sense. 

Why would a woman be in this God-forsaken place? So far as Schofield knew, the Hun didn't let women in their trenches. 

The closest Schofield had ever seen a woman to the front was the odd one or two who drove the ambulances, or came by with kitchens and baths! Undoubtedly, the Germans had a similar dictation? He racked his brain for an explanation. 

Blake comes to a stop so quickly that Schofield nearly barrels into him. 

Schofield pushes his rifle in front of Blake, looking for the source of his friend's hesitation. 

A fork in the tunnel. 

Schofield can see Blakes's determination, and his growing desperation, as the younger man looks into Schofield's eyes. A brief consideration: To split up 

Schofield answers with a slight dip of his chin. 

_No. Stay together._

Blake nods and waits. Schofield does the same, holding his breath to stop the noise as he searches for the voice which calls to them. It was so light that he was starting to think it was his mind playing tricks on him. 

"Blake, listen." Schofield stares at his counterpart, but Blake doesn't move from his spot, "We can't linger here - if we lose our way, we might not get out until it's too late." 

Schofield watches Blake shiver, and he straightens as the younger man turns to meet Schofield's gaze. If Blake was looking to Schofield for reassurance, he would only find anxiety. Something shifts in Blake's expression and Schofield can see that his words nearly convince Blake. 

But instead of conceding, Blake shoves his light out to the left, and he keeps looking, searching for any sign of the phantom whose voice still whispered in the dark. 

Schofield follows frustration lashing at him as he turns around to make sure nothing came up behind the pair.

"There!"

Blakes sudden shout makes Schofield jump, he twirls around and watches Blake as his feet slip on the dust-covered ground. Schofield lags behind, his eyes moving to see something odd jutting out from the carved stone. 

The timber frame of a door.

Something stabs at Schofield, and he jogs, reaching his hand for Blake as the younger moves to push the door open. 

"Don't!" he roars, trying to stop Blake- "There could be tri-" 

BAM!

Schofield stops on reflex, his arms coming up to shield himself. A moment passes, and he realizes something isn't right. Opening his eyes again, Schofield finds that they've not been blown to smithereens. 

The doorway stands open and unharmed before him, Blake's torchlight illuminating the space inside. Schofield rushes to him, heart thundering in his chest. 

Blake isn't moving.

Schofield skids to a stop behind him. Pushing his rifle into the room and adding his torchlight. 

There was the briefest moment of silence as the two soldiers take in the ghostly form of a woman sitting hunched over on the floor. 

In the dust-filled air, her white dressings seem to glow unnaturally. A small, pale hand shielded her face from the light. Trembling, the hand lowered, revealing an equally pale face, framed on one side with black blood. 

Schofield releases a withering breath.

"Jesus." 

Instinctively, he pulls forward, pushing past Blake, who is dumbstruck at the sight. Schofield comes to the woman's side, pausing in a half-crouch as something catches his eye.

Blood is pooled on the floor, a troubling amount, and as Schofield stares at it, he sees tiny paths, footprints going to and from the pool. 

Rats.

"What happened to you?" 

Schofield's starts at Blake's voice. The younger man is coming to kneel next to Schofield. He gently takes the woman's hands in his. 

The woman stares at him. And Schofield watches as her jaw moves, trying to form words.

"T-Tommie's..." 

Her voice was little more than a dry croak; the lone word she managed was stilted and muffled. 

Schofield sees Blake flinch and turns his head to meet the youngers' confused glance.

"Tommie's, yes - friends," Schofield assures, watching realization dawn on Blake's face. "We need to get her up," he orders, a protective instinct growing in him. Schofield shuffles over, taking the woman's injured side.

As he gets closer, the scent of blood and open flesh invades his nose. He'd come accustomed to the smell of death, but still, it makes him scowl. On the woman's left side, Schofield sees Blake follow his lead. 

The nurse makes a sound at the contact and jerks as the two men wrapped their arms around her sides. 

"Easy now," Blake cooed, "We're getting you out of here." He looks up from the woman, his eyes meeting Schofield's, imploring the older man:

_What are we going to do?_

Schofield takes a breath to settle his fraying nerves. 

"On three." 

Blake nods. 

"One, two-three."

The two men stood as one, drawing the woman up with ease. The movement drew a pained howl from her at the same time. Her body stiffens in their arms, and she claws uselessly at the material of Blakes jacket. 

"It's all right. It's all right; we've got you." 

Blake does his best to comfort the woman, looking again to Schofield with worry paling his blue eyes. 

Schofield doesn't say a word, trying to beat down his anxiety. He inhales deeply through his nose and fixes his eyes ahead and gave the woman a moment to collect herself before they attempted to move. 

He tried to find his sense of direction. Which way should lead them to the other side of the tunnels? Should they retreat and go back to the storeroom? The passages were rather narrow; they might not be able to carry the woman like this. 

"You got her?" he asks. Taking a moment to steady the girl with one hand on her chest, Blake looks at Schofield and nods stiffly. He nods back and moves to the door. Schofield turns his light in the direction they came, then further down the hall, which turned sharply and went off in some unknown direction. 

They were in a nasty spot here. 

"L-left," The woman spoke again, her voice the slightest bit stronger this time around. Schofield turns his head to look back at the girl who's leaning heavily into Blake's side. The other man was clasping her to him, the look of concern never leaving his face. 

Schofield looks to the left again, the unknown path in front of him. 

Scowling impressively, he takes another steadying breath and-

KABOOM!

His entire body lurches at the sudden blast. Snapping around, he turns his weapon in the sound's direction. Only to be struck in the face by a wave of wind and dust. 

All around them, the sound of snapping timbers and cracking rock filled the air. Blakes shouts. 

"Bloody rats must've set off a trap!" 

Behind them, the wooden beams holding the tunnel they arrived down collapse. Bringing a wave of stone and dust following after. 

"Move!" Schofield shouts, grabbing Blake by his webbing, and shoving him down the tunnel. "The whole place is coming down!"

Blake is half dragging the woman at his side. The tunnel they were following has more openings. More paths to choose from, and in the chaos, the rats were running rampant. 

The dust was getting thicker, making it harder to see, harder to breathe.

Schofield peeks his head down one of the larger openings, trying to spot daylight and lags behind.

Down the hall, he spots something that looked a lot like a mess. Rats scurried down long dust-covered tables leading back into a maw of darkness. 

His light flickers over the square shapes of stacked food crates—the tin shining inside them. So very much like the stash, he saw in the officers' quarters minutes earlier. 

Then Schofield realizes: The Germans left the food there. 

As bait. 

Anger pushes up through his panic, and he turns to rush after Blake before he got too far ahead-

BOOM

Dust and debris sprang forth from the mess- the cloud surrounding Schofield like an angry maw. Schofield feels the pulse hit his back, and it knocks the air out of him. The dust blinds him and suffocates him as rocks bite at his ankles, dragging him to the ground.

Something larger hits him square in the back. Laying him flat on the floor and knocking the air from his lungs. For a long moment, Schofield can't move as the rubble buries him alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake and Schofield struggle to escape the German Lines.

* * *

"Scho!"

Blake pushes rock after rock aside, searching for his friend in the rubble. He heard screams, Schofield's cries, his voice muffled by the dust and rocks. 

Each scream was getting weaker until they stopped altogether. 

"Come on, Scho!" He cries again. His hands growing bloody as he crawls through the debris, he finds something warm and soft: The olive khaki of Schofields' sleeve. 

"Scho!"

Blake follows the material, shuffling rocks aside. An arm, the strap of a rifle. The dull shine of a metal helmet. He lurches forward, pushing rock after rock from Schofields back. Until Blake could get hold of his friends' webbing, he tugs once, Will's body heaves, still partially buried beneath the rubble. 

"Come on!" 

He pulls again, gaining the slightest bit of slack. Blake gives a massive grunt, pulling upwards and backward with all his might. Schofield breaks free from the stones, and Blake back-peddles as fast as he can. 

His feet slip on the rocks, and he falls back onto the ground—Schofield's body draping over his legs, un-moving. 

"Scho-" 

Horror dawns in Blake's voice as he scrambles to roll his friend over onto his back. There were cuts on Schofield's face, black blood oozing past the layers of dust. Blake pays it no mind; in a panic, he grabs fistfuls of Schofield's jackets and shakes him. 

"Scho! wake u - WAKE UP!" 

He screams, shaking Schofield harder each time. 

A noise claws its way up Schofield's throat. Enough to make Blake stop shaking him. Then a cloud of dust erupts from the older man's mouth. Schofield coughs and gags and chokes. His body is trying to take in great gulps of air and push the dust away all at once. Blake is so grateful he could cry, but the rubble around them is still falling. 

"Get up...." 

Blake feels the panic take hold as another massive rock crashes onto the ground next to them. Schofield's head wobbles on his neck, but he doesn't say anything, so Blake pulls him again. 

"GET UP!" 

Schofield lets out a scream as he's dragged to his feet, one hand crashing onto Blake's shoulder as his legs almost give out beneath him. Blake turns the light on his chest, illuminating the hall in front of him. 

A few meters away, the woman was standing against the wall. 

He'd almost forgotten about the poor nurse. And he couldn't carry both of them. The woman seems more awake now, and shakily lifts her hand before limping down the hall. She appears to know the way, and Blake has no choice but to trust in that. 

He whirls around on Schofield, who struggles to stay on his feet. Blake grabs his shoulders and leans in close so Schofield could hear over the din of crumbling stone. 

"You keep a hold of me!" He jabs a finger at Schofield's shoulder before pointing back at himself. Making sure Scho's hand was on his webbing before pulling forward. 

Behind him, Schofield starts to sputter about not being able to see. 

Blake keeps his eyes glued to the woman's back - she held one hand on the wall to brace herself as she limps along slowly, far too slowly. For a moment, Blake thinks he should push to the front and make sure they don't run headlong into any more traps. The tunnel they follow comes to a sudden sharp turn, and the nurse almost walks straight into the wall. She paws at it for a moment, giving Blake the space he needs to take the lead. 

"This way, come on!" he shouts, taking the sharp right turn—his free hand tugging on the woman's sleeve. 

She stumbles into Schofield as the two try to fit down the narrow tunnel at the same time. Schofield makes a noise, his hand scrambling around before they manage to sort themselves out. 

Blake grabs his friend's rifle strap, pulling him forward. The nurse finds and takes hold of Schofield's webbing. Blake keeps his eyes forward and squints at a grey shape jutting out of the darkness ahead. 

"I see daylight!" 

A few more strides and they come to another stairwell. The white light of the late morning sun cut a pillar into the darkness. 

Blake scrambles up the stairs. Schofield and the woman stumble after him, all three gasp at the sudden abundance of air. Blake keeps pushing forward and downward into something like a ditch. He feels Schofield skitter to a stop behind him, struggling for breath.

"Stop...Stop jus- let me sta-nd." 

Schofield sounds so weak, desperate, and Blake finds himself slowing. 

"Dirty Bastards!" he growls. Wanting to make sure they were clear of the tunnel in case it collapsed behind them. But he slips on the rocks of the rise and goes to his knees. 

Schofield collapses on the hillside, convulsing as he tries to rid the rest of the dust from his lungs. 

Meanwhile, The woman continued to wobble forward, staggering blindly as her addled mind struggles to make sense of everything going on. She can't seem to lift her left foot off the ground, and it snags in the rocks, making her waver. The action prompts a violent spinning sensation, and she folds onto the ground.

She wretches a few times at the ground, and when the spell lifts, she looks about. Shapes and colors start to form from the haze in her eyes. 

Tilting back some, she looks into the sky. 

Never before had the color blue been so beautiful- and she feels as though she's not seen it in far too long.

She leans back further to drink in the sight, but the world spun anew into streaks of creamy tan and stark blues. Her head rolls down, and she closes her eyes to ease the spinning. 

The voices of the two Tommie's cut through the ringing in her ears. Their tones were harsh and rising in volume. 

"Why in God's name did you have to choose me?" 

"I didn't know what I was choosing you for!" 

"No, you didn't, you never know. that's your problem."

She listens to the argument, having no thoughts on it. Instead, she was more perplexed by the fact that the gray fog in her vision stopped clearing. She realizes that something was… missing in the picture made by her eyes. 

A few paces away, the men's argument reaches its peak. 

"Alright then, go back! Nothings stopping you, go all the way bloody home if you want!" Blake snaps. He swooped his hand down and snatched his canteen from Schofield's grasp. Walking away and missing the glare, Schofield fixed at him. 

He almost growls, feeling tears prick his eyes. 

_bloody dust, bloody Scho - getting heated like that-_

Blake shook his head, his attention going to the nurse a few paces away. She's fallen to the ground and looks like she was trying to prod at her injury. 

It was even more horrific to look at in the daylight, the wound.

A bloody streak ran across the edge of her brow, around her head, and past her ear.

His anger fizzles out as his stomach churns, and he swallows hard at the bile rising in his throat. 

The nurse flinches when his shadow passes over her. 

"Easy, it's just me," he assures her, smiling when her hazel eyes flit up to look at him. 

Her right eye is almost swollen shut; the whites stained dark red by blood - the stuff was everywhere. The sight of so much made Blake wonder how she hasn't died.

He smiles as best he could, searching his pockets for something he could use to clean her up. Moments later, he'd drags out a dark blue handkerchief. A gift his mother sent him- he shakes his canteen, chasing thoughts of home away.

The vessel is nearly empty. 

Blake looks at the canteen and frowns before putting the handkerchief to its mouth. 

He should have thought about how much he had before giving the canteen to Schofield.

_cranky wanker_

"That's not going to do any good." 

Blake's shoulders jump at Schofield's voice next to him. His grey eyes fixed on the woman, who didn't acknowledge the taller man at all. 

"We'll need much more to clean that up." he continues, one hand moving to touch the woman's chin, trying to tilt her head and get a better look at the wound. 

The woman reacts to the touch as if Schofield's branded her. She snapped her head around to look at him and started to shake as her body flailed backward. 

"Steady now!" Blake coughs. He grabs the woman by the shoulders as her eyes roll back, and she threatens to crumble.

"I don't think she can see from that eye," Schofield observes, scrambling around to brace the woman up from behind. 

"Or hear from that ear," adds Blake thinking about how she didn't see him when he came up from the right. 

"Makes sense - being shot in the head and all." 

"They bloody shot her?" Blake asks, flinching at the way his voice cracked. Schofield nods grimly as his hand comes up to cup the woman's head. 

"Fucking bastards," mutters Blake feeling fresh rage well up inside him. "What good does it to shoot a Nurse?" 

"She wasn't one of theirs," Schofield explains. His eyes were traveling over the woman's dressings before moving off to find Blakes' confused gaze.

"She's from the Red Cross! They're supposed to be neutral, aren't they?" 

Schofield shakes his head. 

"Don't think the Boshe cares much if you call yourself neutral or not," he explains ruefully. There was a pause as Blake considered this. "Besides, this one looks like she's from the Q.A.I.M.N.S." 

Schofield points to the gray cape bordered with scarlet. Blake looks at the material but says nothing. 

"Come, let us put that water to better use." 

Schofield guides the woman by the shoulders until her back is against his chest. Then he leans back, to the point where the woman is lying down. She wriggles in his grasp, making a small sound of protest when her legs shoot out in front of her for balance. 

Blake thought the sight odd and would have laughed. But can't bring himself to do it before he guides the canteen to the woman's mouth. Her pale hands were shakily coming up to grasp at Blake's hands; Like a babe reaching for its bottle. 

"Small sips." 

"I know." Blake hisses, his tone is sharper than he intends as he let a small amount of water pass from the canteen. 

The woman gapes at the water when it touches her lips as if she'd forgotten how to drink. 

A few attempts later, Blake manages to get her something to drink. Small rivulets cut through the dust and grime around her chin. He cleans it away as Schofield guides the nurse back to a sitting position. 

"What are we going to do, Scho?" he asks, looking at his friend. "She can't possibly make it to the Devon's." 

"There should be an aid station, not too far out of the way." Schofield gets to his feet and adjusts his kit. Something catches the man's eye, his next words dying in his throat. 

"Blake... your hands." 

Blake makes an inquisitive sound and looks at his hands. Dark blood caked around his fingers. Knuckles split, nails were torn, some broke clean off. 

"From, back there," he explains, shrugging it off as the pain decided to make itself known to Blake. "Smarts a bit." 

A knowing look dawns on Schofield's face, and he ducks his head down to hide the shame of his earlier outburst. 

Blake makes a chuffing noise and laughs. 

"Bloody idiots, we are." 

Schofield nods, a bitter chuckle leaving him. 

"Should be glad we didn't walk straight into one of those trip-wires." 

"No- Well yes, but:" Blake grabs the woman by her arms and gently brought her to her feet. She was looking at him, confused. 

"We've not introduced ourselves." Blake smiles again, bringing the woman's hands together between his own. "My name's Blake - that there is Schofield." 

Something changed in the woman's expression; the empty dumbness fades slightly as her eyes move between Blake and Schofield. Her mouth moves, trying to form words. 

"B-ake. . ."

He nods smile growing wider- the woman shifts her hand towards the taller man. 

"Sss-Sho-. . ."

He responds with a nod and a tight smile before returning his attention to the area around them. 

"We need to get going, Blake; we've lost time." Schofield walks past the two, scanning the ridges of the quarry around them. "Keep an eye on the ridgelines."

"Well, hang on." 

Schofield snaps around to look at Blake, an incredulous expression on his face. 

"We've not heard her name yet." 

Blake says it in such a tone, with such a look on his face that Schofield was immediately annoyed. It was his blind naivete again. That same innocent view of the world which made Blake think things like medals and chivalry were somehow important in places like this.

"I doubt she knows her name in that state." he cuts back sharply before turning on his heel to keep walking. He feels a pang in his chest. 

He was quite a bastard at the moment. 

Their mission was going poorly, sure the Boshe were gone, but Lord only knows how many traps they left behind. He should have known there would be traps; he should have expected it.   
  
His hand still throbbed. There were aches all over his battered body. Dust was choking his lungs, and there was some kind of nibbling pain in his ribs, breathing too deeply hurt. But not so badly that he thought anything was broken. 

And to top it off, the pair had to deal with that injured woman. 

It was all going wrong, and for some reason, he thought. If they kept trudging away from this place, their luck might change. He had a strange sense of urgency about him that he couldn't quite place. He flinched as a thought flickered through his mind. 

"And fire that effing flare."

"Blow it out yer ear Sco." Blake let out a sigh, digging into his kit for the flare, he cast a glance at the woman. Who had taken to staring at him with an odd look on her face.

"Don't mind him, full of hot air he is." Blake tried to strike up some mirth for the trio but felt it fail as he fumbled with the flare. 

Down the path, Schofield's shoulders drop. He glares back at the younger with a look of pure exasperation. 

"Gail. . . "

Blake's head snaps up at the woman's words; he looks her in the face, expression searching. 

She has a look of pure concentration, brows knitted together as she tried to get her rattled brain to put words together. Slowly her eyes rose to meet Blakes; she bit her lip and tried again. 

"Am... Gail." 

"Gale?" Blake parrots a smile making its way to his face. He looks between this Gale and Scho, who looked similarly shocked. "It's nice to meet you, Gale." 

She looks at him, not entirely pleased.

"N-nice to meet, you t-to. . ." she looks from Blake to Schofield and nods.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far I've stuck to the schedule! Hooray me! I'm going to start using this section to put in little notes and tidbits I think could use some expansion. 
> 
> What were the Q.A.I.M.N.S. ? -- Standing for the: Queen Alexandra's Royal Army Nursing Corps. The QAIMNS is an organization that started in 1902 to provide elite nursing services to the British Expeditionary Force. They often worked in concert with other similar organizations such as the VADs and Red Cross. 
> 
> WAS the Red Cross neutral? -- Sort of? - Most major players in the first World War had their own sections of the Red Cross. BUT the Red Cross and organizations like the QAIMNS were all considered "Non-Combatants" By the Laws and Customs of War ((The Hague and Geneva Conventions)) So while not strictly Neutral the Red Cross and other entities were given protections during Wartime. 
> 
> But! There was the International Committee of the Red Cross ((1863)) Which was tasked with providing humanitarian aid in wartime and after natural disasters. As well as documenting War Crimes the Committee created the ' International Prisoners-of-War Agency' ((1914)) and became one of the only truly neutral entities during the Great War, often cooperating with agents from all sides to provide humanitarian aid.
> 
> Did the Germans really booby-trap their own trenches: Yup - during Operation Alberich ((The retreat to the Hindenburg Line)) The German Army did all in their power to deny the French and British armies any conveniences when they inevitably moved up. The scorched earth policy was meant to weaken their enemy. 
> 
> I hope your enjoying the story and I'll see you next week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again: sticking to schedule so far! I hope you're enjoying yourselves feel free to leave me your thoughts.

* * *

Slowly, the trio picked their way out from the German trenches, through destroyed artillery lines and up a well-worn path, into a burned scrub of young forest. 

Blake resigned himself to playing the role of a crutch as Gale could hardly stand upright, let alone walk. So it was left Schofield to take the lead, his rifle held in front of him, searching for any signs of traps. 

Thankfully, he found none, and some part of Schofield felt great satisfaction at seeing craters and burnt earth from their own guns. They gave the Hun some grief, at least. Behind him, Schofield heard Blake regaling the wounded nurse with some tale about Private Wilko.

"- So his girls send's him some sweet-smelling oil, like Golden Syrup, and well, Wilko didn't like carrying it in his kit so one night, he smothers it all in his hair.-"

Schofield had an idea of where this was going; he pauses, eyes fixating on Blake as he continues his story. 

"- and he wakes up in the middle of the night, a big rat sitting on his chest! Licking at the oil on his head!" He pauses, chuckling as the images replay in his mind, and smiling when Schofield laughs to himself modestly. "So Wilko, he shoots up out of bed, to shove the rat off and it bites him, tears his ea-"

"Blake!" barks Schofield, his mirth dissipating- the younger man flinches, eyes bolting to Schofield. "You can't tell stories like that to a lady!"

The look Blakes gives him tells Schofield precisely what he thinks of that. But he mulls it over, frowning impressively as he turns his head away from Gale: who hadn't responded to the story in any fashion. 

"Just trying to get a laugh, Scho." he murmurs ashamedly as he gently pulls Gale forward again. 

Schofield gives his friend a sympathetic glance, his shoulders drooping at the forlorn expression Blake was wearing. 

The older man has nothing to say; he wears a frown of his own and leads them to the edge of the wood.

Schofield pauses. In the distance, two biplanes were circling the tree line. The buzz of their engines echoing across the otherwise silent countryside. He follows their path with his eyes, wondering what they saw, but the thought faded away when his gaze settles on the distant form of a farmstead near the top of the next hill. 

He was about to call Blake when he hears the younger man speaking to Gale, his tone urgent.:

_"Come on, love, look at me."_

Schofield snaps around at this, finding Blake holding Gales face in his hands. She's slumped over onto the ground, and Schofield bites back a curse as he doubles back. 

By the time he reaches them, the nurse has pulled her eyes open, but she only blinks slowly at the men, confusion, and fatigue seeping into her features. Blake helps her to sit, his breath catching a moment before he turns to Schofield. 

"There is an aid station- shouldn't be too far." the older man murmurs, reaching a hand to a pocket in Blakes kit- where he keeps the map. Blake follows the thought, changing places with Schofield as he wrenches the thing free and lays it over the ground. Schofield braces Gale up with one arm and watches Blake pour over the map before looking at his compass. 

"Ecoust is a little over five miles northeast," Blake announces, checking his compass. "The aid station is three miles southwest."

"And back across No-man' s-land," Schofield added, letting out a long sigh from his nose before he looks back to Gale. "That's a long detour..."

Blake nods, folding the map up and stuffing it back into its pocket. 

"What do you think we should do then?"

A pause. 

"We have time-" Schofield starts, knowing the detour would add many hours to their journey: Back through the German Line, back across No-man' s-land, and with a severely injured Gale in tow. Then to do it all again afterward. Which also discounted the possibility of them running into more trouble along the way. Schofield released another huff and turned to his friend: 

Blake is already at war with himself; he wanted to, no, _needed_ to get to his brother as quickly as possible, but.

Gale was someone, here and now, who needed their help, here. And now. 

He drew his lips into a thin line, incapable of picking an option. In the end, all he did was shake his head.

"We could split up," he stated, breathless. 

"Absolutely not." Schofield's voice was almost harsh. He shuddered and turned his attention back to the farmhouse. 

It was probably empty - probably.

He drags Gale up to her feet, Blake quickly taking up his position again, ducking his head under Gale's arm as they move to the crest of the hill. Schofield pulls himself away from the pair and gestures to the farmhouse when it comes into view.

"Maybe.... we have her hold up there," 

Blake immediately voices his displeasure.

"Hole her up in _there_?" He points at a spot in the building's roof where the slates have sunken inwards. "And have her do what? Sit back and hope we return later?" 

Schofield was quiet a moment; 

"We sent the flare..." he says as if that would solve their problem. "And I'm sure Erinmore wants to have the men move up- with the line being in pieces now, they'll have to do something." 

Blake was quiet. He'd given no thought to the other things Erinmore said. If the Germans moved their Lines back, that would mean the Surreys would have to move their Lines forward. 

Sending men over No-man's-land was one thing. But advancing the horses and tents and guns over would almost be impossible. It would take time that the Boys back at the regiment didn't have-

"We don't know if Leslie will send anyone." Blake counters. Schofield starts to move down the hill. 

"He might." was Schofields only answer, and it didn't even convince him. Schofield couldn't see it, but from behind him, Blake was roiling mad: How could Scho seriously suggest they leave Gale in _that_? 

Was there anything for her to eat? _Not-bloody-likey_. They'd have to split their food for her, and Blake was put off at the idea of parting with his Iron Ration. Besides that, the nights still got cold. Would they have to leave behind blankets and matches? What if she faints again, and no one is there to wake her up? 

Did Schofield think of these things? Had he forgotten the simple fact that she had a _bullet wound_ in her head!

"We can't leave her like that, Scho." 

"And we absolutely can't bring her with us!" Schofield barks back, turning on Blake and fixing him with a steady glare. "We are in German territory; there may be Bosche in that house, over the next hill, or around the next effin' tree, we don't know Blake!" Schofield snaps his mouth shut. He let out a shuttering breath and moved toward the framework of stone near them.

"The best we can do is find a safe enough place- finish our mission and then pick her up again on our way back," he concludes with a motion that was almost like a shrug. 

Blake stares at him; his jaw set in that stubborn way of his, and Schofield gives him a look that shows his own disdain for their situation. Blake can see the strife in Scho, and his anger abates with a huff. 

"I don't like the idea of someone like Leslie looking after 'er," Blake mutters with a frown. 

"Better than the Hun." Schofield quips moments later, pushing ahead a few paces. 

Blake chuffed and presses on - eyeing Gale with concern. 

"Are you feeling alright?" 

Gale doesn't speak but nods once- a distraught and pained expression etched on her face. 

Something catches Blake's attention, and he snaps his head over to see Schofield, standing still the door of a walled orchard.

"Scho?" 

Blake moved his gun up and crept the remaining distance. Gale was stumbling behind him, tugging at his webbing as her feet snags in the grass. 

Peeking inside, Blake pauses, his jaw going slack. The trees covered in white flowers and all toppled over.

"They cut them all down," Schofield bitterly observes, starting to move through the scattered branches.

"Cherries." Tom breathes, looking around the fallen copse of flowering trees. White and pinkish petals were falling all around. Blake moved to grab one branch. "Lamberts."

Schofield stops to glance at Blake. 

"They might be Dukes, hard to tell when they aren't in fruit."

"What's the difference?" 

Blake looks to Schofield, a wry smile flicking over his face for a moment. He explains it to Scho in simple terms, enjoying the feeling of warmth the topic gave him. He tells Schofield about the Queen Anne's and Cuthbert's. Sweet cherries and sour ones and he was going to tell him what was best for pies and what was better for jams but- 

"Why on earth would you know these things?" 

Blake scoffs at the look Schofield was giving him - like he'd grown a second head or something!

"Mum's got an orchard," he explains with some indifference. And as the trio picks their way through the fallen trunks. He tells Schofield about the petals covering the ground with white like snow. And how he and Joe would spend an entire day picking the fruit. 

Schofield and Gale listened. Scho being more engaged, hanging on Blake's words. His attention turned back to the orchard, a sad registration forming in his chest. 

"So, these ones are all goners?"

Blake hums and takes a closer inspection of the trees. 

"No... new ones will sprout up when the stones rot-" he looks to Schofields with a slight smile. "They'll end up with more trees than before." 

There was a stretch of quiet; the two soldiers make their way to the opposite wall of the orchard. Schofield wants to ask why they put a fence around the trees, but the thought died as he crouched along a partially collapsed portion: They could see the farmhouse and yard from here. 

"Looks abandoned," Blake observes. He was leaving himself far too exposed. 

"We have to make sure," Schofield answers, nodding slightly. There were several outbuildings, plenty of spaces to hide. "Have Gale wait here," he orders just as he was about to move through the door. 

Blake nods and turns to the woman, whos standing stranded in the middle of the orchard. A fallen tree blocking her path, and she either didn't have the strength to move over it or didn't bother trying. 

Blake felt guilt churn in his stomach. They were being real _proper_ gentlemen, weren't they? His mum would be furious over the way the pair were treating her. He goes back, calling for Scho to wait up a moment. 

He goes to Gale's side and brings a gentle smile. 

"Come now, Gale, let's give you a rest over there, all right?" he summons, offering his hands for her to take. Maybe he'd be better off carrying her over the fallen trunks. 

"App-les..." Gale stammers, grabbing at one of the flowering branches that stood in front of her. She looks at the blossoms before turning her head towards Blake. 

"Nah, love, cherries." Blake corrects, feeling the slightest bit annoyed at her mistake. "But I suppose apple blossoms are white, too, aren't they?" 

Gale looks at him, perturbed, her mouth pulling into a frown. 

"No..." she begins slowly, "You grow cherries." she stops, gesturing to herself. "We grow apples, b-back.... back home." 

Blake smiles, and he looks at Schofield, who was now resting with his back to the wall, observing the two with a quirked brow.

Gale turns back to the fallen trees, and Blake moves forward to help her navigate the things. He thought it would have been better to have them just go around the thicket.

_There could be Boshe in that house._

Fear runs up and down Blake's spine as Scho's warning comes to him unbidden. From where they were standing, a sniper could pick them off in the open doorway. 

"Well, what kind of apples do you have then?" Blake asks, frowning at the fear that laces his voice. 

Gale seems to come alive at the question. Warmth starting in her eyes as her mind turns to something familiar for her to think over. 

"Bramleys... Ribston Pippen's, Macouns." she gestures the size the apples with her hands.

"I don't know much about Apples," Blake admits as Gale finally takes his hand, and he helps her to the wall for them to sit. "Do they make good pies?"

Schofield huffs out a laugh and looks to the heavens. 

A smile flickers over Gale's face, and she nods. Her hand coming to touch the stone as she lowers herself to the ground. 

"Pies, cobblers, ciders. . . " she pauses, a more remorseful expression crossing her face. "But right now the War Ag takes them all for jams"

Blake parses that for a moment- his eyes scan the cherries and he wonders briefly if Mums cherries are being used for the war too.

"A shame really - I could go for some pie." he declares with a nod of his head. 

Gale hums in agreement, her eyes slipping closed, and she suddenly looks exhausted. Schofield, vigilant as he was, puts a steadying hand on her shoulder and helps her to lean against the wall.

He shares a glance with Blake, who nods and adjusts the hold of his rifle. 

"The house then." 

Schofield returns the nod, looking to Gale for a moment and giving her a gentle summons. When she doesn't rouse right away, Schofield feels his shoulders grow tense, and he shakes her again, calling her name with more urgency. 

Gale responds with a drowsy hum, her eyes slowly dragging open, looking at the men with mild annoyance. She stills, and confusion molds over her face. Schofield loosens his grip on her shoulders and leans in closer.

"You stay here, all right? We'll only be a moment," he explains, as one would to a child. The nurse doesn't answer; her head bobs, and her eyes slip closed again--a sigh leaving her as she relaxes into the wall further.

The two men share another look and quickly make their way out of the orchard. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far as tidbits this week: We have mentions of aid stations once again. 
> 
> In the Great War, the Western Front was very static, which allowed the British Forces to establish a "Chain of Evacuation" for their injured troops. The Aid Station Schofield mentioned was likely a small dug-out put somewhere behind the Front-Line where the injured would be patched up and handed off to Stretcher Bearers to be taken further along the Evacuation Chain. 
> 
> We also mention the Home Front briefly:  
> In the 1910s upwards of 60% Englands food was imported, so when Britain joined the fighting, the War at Sea prevented large amounts of food from reaching England- in order to increase their own food production, England created War Agriculture Committees, who were in charge of increasing food yields. Farmers were encouraged to turn any arable land to grow crops and almost everything the farms produced from Cereals to Wild herbs was expected to be given up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REVISED: 8/5/20

The small homestead was, indeed, abandoned. 

Its dilapidated structures have been thoroughly looted. Anything of value taken and everything else soiled. Schofield searched the house while Blake checked the yard. 

Schofield kept his gun up at all times, waiting for a German to jump out from the shadows at him. But there were none. From outside the window, he saw Blake wandering about, gun down at his side and posture much too relaxed.

Turning again, Schofield stills- his eyes catching on a doll on the floor—a child's toy, with its eyes blackened by cigarette burns.  
It looked up at him, telling tales and asking questions that wounded his very soul.

  
Blake is calling to him- asking if Schofields found anything, and he appreciates the distraction. 

  
"Nothing," he answers, failing to rip his eyes from the doll. He hears footfalls come to the door, as Blake walks into the house from its backdoor. The younger man scans the area with a frown before peering into the scullery. 

  
"Find any food?" he implores before turning to the den, with its dark fireplace. Even the furniture was ransacked and upturned.

  
"No- I don't like this place," Schofield adds, finally ripping his eyes from the doll. Blake hums next to him, eyeing the ceiling.

"Me neither, this place is pretty sparse." 

Schofield turns to look at Blake. 

"Pretty." he starts, causing Blake to turn towards him with an inquisitive sound. Schofield dips his chin and raises his brows. "You called her pretty." 

Blake gives him a confused and scandalized look. 

"I did not! Have you gone nutters?" 

Schofield blinked, realizing his error. 

" _Ah_ \- Love." he corrected, casting Blake a tired grin. The shocked look on Blake's face gives Schofield's smirk a mischievous glint, "You called her _love_." His tone was teasing. 

A flush stains Blake's cheeks and the younger man flounders. 

"Well tha-that's. . ." he shifts his weight between his feet. "I didn't mean- She _is_ pretty." Blake looks at Schofield, his whole face going red. "Y-You know- for a girl." 

Schofield feels his smile grow but it quickly fails, and falters. 

"She was shot." he starts

"I know!" Interjects Blake, "What's that matter?" He eyes Schofield up and down and his scrutiny makes Schofield shiver. "Do you think she's ugly for it?" Schofield huffs, and stands straighter. 

"I didn't say that." 

Blake blanches. 

"You _do_! Scho!" 

The older man flinches at the scolding tone- feeling a small measure of shame flush his cheeks. 

"It wasn't her fault." Blake continues, "Besides," he adds with a shrug. "You'd hardly notice a scar if she parts her hair right." 

Schofield swallows his next words and spends a moment simply watching the innocence before him. The older man didn't have it in him to tell Blake. . . that the nurse likely wouldn't - He turns away quickly, unable to look his friend in the eye any longer. 

"You should probably bring her in here." He says, purposely missing Blake's confused gaze. "I'll check the barn quick - then we'll get her squared away." Schofield shoves off before Blake can raise any protest and ignores the younger man when he tries. He casts one last glance at the doll as he passes by, pausing just briefly as his foot brushes the haunting thing. He shivers, then stalks off. 

Blake goes to follow wondering just what could have set off Schofield like that- then he spots the doll. 

_Oh._

  
Lifting his gaze, Blake watches as Schofield trudged across the yard, his back tense. A frown pulled at Blake's mouth, and he decided that, yes it would be a good time to fetch Gale. 

  
Schofield pushes across the yard and into the barn. It was easy to see it was empty, but he wants a distraction.

  
He finds it in the form of a covered bucket. Brows creasing, he knocks the lid off with his foot and startles at the sight which greets him.

  
Milk. 

  
Kneeling, Schofield looks at the bucket with reverence. With a deep breath, he smells it: nothing ill to be found yet. He dips his uninjured hand into the bucket; the milk was no longer warm- it had cooled in the morning air. 

  
Taking a small sip from what rests in his palm, the rich flavor washes over his tongue, and he smiles: It has been so long since he'd had fresh milk. 

  
He moves swiftly, pulling his canteen free and filling it to the brim. He takes a large swig of it, a gratified sound rumbling up his throat. 

  
The sound of a cow mooing brings Schofield's attention beyond the barn. Walking out into the beginnings of pasture, he finds himself startled by the one thing he didn't expect to see. 

  
Gale. 

  
The woman must have made her way down here while the men were checking the house. 

Shifting back to where he left her. Schofield finds that another outbuilding obscured the orchard. But across from the pond, he sees Blake looking around. Following wavering paths of disturbed dew in the grass as he hunts the wayward nurse. 

  
"We told you to wait behind." Schofield scolds, walking abreast to the woman. Gale turns and eyes him briefly before moving her gaze back to what drew her here, to begin with: A single Holstein cow. 

  
It was a massive beast, standing alert and unharmed several paces away.

  
Well, that told Schofield where the milk came from. 

  
A calf stands shakily from the grasses next to the cow—a gash of red staining the small thing's flank. Schofield feels a stone in his stomach when he spots the wound. The calf hobbles; its leg lifted as he mewled weakly. Its mother stares at the two by the barn, unmoving. 

  
"Poor thing." Schofield breaths chambering his rifle. "He won't make it, will he?"

  
Gale hums in consideration. 

  
"He's on his feet- and his mother's with him," she said, her voice growing less slurred. 

Schofield watches Gale for a moment, then turns back to the cow. 

"You sound quite certain of it." he mutters lowering his rifle as he watches the animals.

A single ear from the cow flickers away from the two, training on some other sound elsewhere. Then she turns her attention to her calf, interrupts his suckling, and nudges him with her broadhead.   
Then the sound of rumbling engines echoed across the hills. Schofield turned, transfixed as he spotted two planes appear in the distance. 

  
"Our friends again?"

  
Blake was making his way to them. His face slightly flushed but relaxed when he sees Gale and Schofield together. The trio watches the planes for a moment. 

  
They were flying oddly, weaving back and forth, spinning and making their engine's whine. 

  
"A dogfight?" Schofield wonders, was one of the planes German? It was hard to tell from this distance - but the aircraft continue to get closer. 

  
Suddenly a third appears, flying in a straight path towards the other two. Its engines at a full roar. 

  
The sight has Blake and Schofield entranced, drawing the pair out into the pasture. But Gale's instincts tell her to flee, and she makes for the house.

  
"Who's winning?" Blake wonders aloud as one plane moves to avoid the newcomer, which enters the fray with a peppering of machine gunfire. 

  
"Us," mumbles Schofield, trying to spot any markings on the planes. "I think." 

  
The planes dodge and roll around each other. But only one seems to fire; perhaps the other two were out of munitions? 

  
Suddenly one plane spews smoke. Its engines crying out loudly, and its form going still as it curves toward the ground. It seems to be flying in their direction, but mostly straight down. Blake pumps his fist in the air; he's never seen a dogfight before.

  
"They got him!" 

  
The plane dips beneath the false horizon of a hill. A moment passes, there was no sound of an explosion, even its engines seem to die away. Schofield moved forward several paces, straining his ears. 

  
In a flash, the plane was on top of them. 

  
Its wings jut out from over the hill, the black cross of the German army painted on its canvas. Schofield recoils. Turning on his heel and running from the beast like a frightened rabbit. Blake lets out a shout and beat a hasty retreat. 

  
He and Blake barely clear the barn. The plane's shadow was looming over them before they threw themselves down the small hill. 

  
Unable to turn, the plane slams into the barn with a mighty crash.

  
Splinters of wood scatter in the plane's wake, and flames lick up the dried timber. And just as Blake and Schofield began scrambling to their feet: screaming.   
Blake gets to his feet and ran back to the plane. Upon realizing that the screams were coming from the Pilot. Schofield follows behind, and soon they were scrambling to wrench the man free from his aircraft. 

  
Gale stands by, horrified by it all. But when her blurry eyes fell on the German Pilot, when she hears his pained screams: She feels the familiar call of her duty. It soothes her fear, pushes back her fatigue, and even seems to clear her mind. 

  
It's something familiar, something she knew how to do; she didn't need her bumbling mind to think about it: She simply needed to act.   



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor edits: 8/11/20
> 
> ADDITIONAL NOTE 8/25/20:  
> Hovering your cursor over the German lines!

* * *

Gale must remember all that which she was taught- do not make any sudden movements or loud noises- do not jostle the patient who is at her mercy. 

But, his pants are one fire, and such sensibilities are lost in the face of such an emergency. . .

“ _ Mein beine! Hilf Mir! _” The man cries, his pale eyes finding Gale as she rips her kercheif free from her head." _ Schwester! Mein beine! Mein beine!" _

Gale lays the kerchief over the man's legs- the cloth is large enough to smother the flames, and she bats quickly at the fire and being careful not to hit too strongly. The Pilot goes stiff and makes a pained noise as she aggravates the abused skin beneath.   
Once she is sure the fire is gone, she moves forward, placing one hand on the man's face, another on his chest - To handle an injured man so roughly, it would undoubtedly aggravate any injury he's sustained.

The poor man is nearly delusional from pain; face slicked with sweat and pale as he sucks in deep breaths between clenched teeth.

“ _ Immer sachte! _” She cooed, her voice calm. The Pilot locks eyes with her, and almost instantly, her presence soothes him. She feels the tension in hum abate under her touch, and she smiles. " _Beruhigen _”

The Pilot is shaking, fear adrenaline and shock all mingling under his skin as Gale begins to take stock of him. First was his legs; she leaned over, ignoring the small sense of dizziness that brought and gently removed her apron from the Pilot's lap.

His trousers are severely burned, red and blackened flesh are left exposed to the clouded daylight. Gashes in his skin bled from where the tommies wrenched him free from the plane.   
She saw no visible breaks, but German flight suits were thicker and heavier than what the boys in the flying corps had. So the true extent of it would not be revealed until she got the heavy clothes off. 

“ _Bitte, Bitte. Wasser. _" The Pilot begs meekly, his hand wandering up to grasp at Gales sleeves. She turns her head to look him in the face: pity and compassion rise in her chest as she looks at him. He's 

She manages a smile and covers his shaking hand with hers.

" _Es wird gut. _" She assures him.

Next to her, Blake and Schofield watch. Unable to understand a word the German was saying and shocked that Gale could. Schofield forces himself forward a grimace marring his face. 

  
"We should put him out of his misery." She hears the man declare suddenly; there was anger in his voice, a venom formed as he looks at the face of his enemy: A hatred of his fellow man which Gale recognized from similar words spoken by other Tommies, in other places.   
She struggles to hide her shock at such a barbaric suggestion as she watches the Pilot. Whose attention has been drawn by Schofield's words. 

All at once, the German goes quiet and still. 

This turns Gale's shock to annoyance- the man has distressed her patient.   
"You will not harm him," Gale states simply as she turns her head, staring at the two men, both struck dumb by the fierceness in her tone and eyes. "He needs water." 

A pause, no one moves. She narrows her eyes at the taller of the two men- a nurse should never have to repeat herself: 

"Fetch, him, water." 

Schofield knows an order when he hears one, and despite her desperate state, Gale is a Q.A.I.M.N.S., and this is her patient - German or no, She would not be swayed. He glowers and moves off to get water from the nearby pump. Blake stays close, watching in bewilderment. 

"What are we going to-"

Suddenly, the Pilot starts to thrash and cry, his arms flailing as if he were trying to swim across the ground.

" _Bitte, Bitte! Ich möchte leben. . . Ich will nicht sterben! _"

Gale moves again, one hand pressing against his chest, and she finds quite suddenly that she's no strength in her left arm. This causes the mask of calm to slip as she instead turns to look the man in the face. His eyes are wild with fear. 

" _Ich möchte Leben! _"

" _Beruhigen. . . beruhigen, Niemand wird dich verletzen. _"Gale tries to hush him, gently stroking the side of his face.

Something moves behind Gale. The Pilot's eyes snap to see the second Tommy, and more distressingly, he finds the glint of Blake's bayonet as it jostled lightly behind the young man's shoulder. 

Gale see's the change in the man's eyes, the fear building as a wave of adrenaline moves through him. The tension fills every muscle in his body again; his chest starts to shutter from all his shaking.

"Move away." she snaps, turning to Blake, who only gives her a mildly startled look. 

They are terrible orderlies! 

"You're scaring him - back away!" She explains harshly, and she almost shoves him. But she's overcome with a horrid wave of nausea, her head spinning at all this movement.

But she hears Blake's floundering apologies as he takes several significant steps away and out of the Germans' sight.

The man's hands are grappling at Gale's skirt as she lowers herself back down. His body is shaking violently as he tries to pull himself off the ground. Gale has to squeeze her eyes shut to stop the world from spinning: her burst of strength fading as quickly as it came. 

" _Schwester, bitte, ich will nicht sterben!"_

Gale swallows down the acid in her throat, forces her own pain and fear away. She smiles at the German reminding herself: _'_ Don't let your worry or fatigue show to the men: you are forbearing, indomitable.' 

_"Nein, nein, nein, bitte, bleib unten" _She tries to summon the energy to push the man to the ground. _Niemand wird dich verletzen." _

Behind her, Gale hears Blake quietly call for Schofield. Apprehension rising in the young soldiers' voice as he shrugs his rifle from his shoulder. 

The Pilot must see this as he snarls, and his grip on Gale's arms becomes harsh as fear mingled with rage. Gale pleads with the man using all her meager strength to keep him down- she must calm him.

" _Beruhigen_. _. . Niemand wird dich verletzen. Bitte, Bitte._ "

 _ "Lügnerin!" _The man screams as he's suddenly right up in her face. Gale lurches back but the world about her twirls, and in a flurry of motion, she seems to be dragged onto her feet and shoved away with great force. 

The Pilot is on his feet, and he is enraged. 

Gale stumbles over the muddy ground and puts her hands up. Her swimming eyes find the man and she calls for him to stop. 

But the German is beyond reason - He a wild beast, snarling and baring a long knife from the belt Gale neglected to notice. 

He makes a noise deep in his throat and charges forward, intent on gutting the woman where she stands. 

Gale shuffles back, taking a stance with her arms coming out as if she intended to grab the man. But the German slashes wildly with his knife, batting away her defenses in an instant. 

Next, she knows, Gale is laying with her back on the ground- and two forms are moving above her. 

Blake has charged at the larger man with a shout, striking him in the side and using his rifle to push the German back. And in doing so, he's knocked Gale to the ground. For a moment, the two men are dead-locked the German dropping his knife to stop Blake from dozing him over outright. 

Blake was no stranger to tussles. But the Pilot was older, more powerful, unlike the younger man, this was not the first time he's had to fight for his life. 

The man overpowers Blake, using a feint to wrestle the younger's gun from his grasp. He struck out, hitting Blake along the face with his rifle. The butt of the firearm slamming into Blake's face with a loud smack! 

Blake makes no sound as his head snaps around from the blow, his body following as he tumbles into the mud.

The German points the rifle at Blake, a look of pure ferocity on his face as he drives the bayonet down. 

CRACK!

The sounds of rifle fire echo across the farmyard and the German lurches as if kicked. The rifle fumbles from his hands as a shocked look crosses his face. 

CRACK!

He lurches again then falls- his body collapsing onto a screaming Blake. 

"Blake!" 

Schofield is there in an instant. Helmet missing. He shoulders his rifle and wrenches the German's body off Blake. 

The younger man scuttles away, kicking at the ground. He wrenches his clothing up and starts patting at his hip before looking at his hand...

"I'm alright." he declares, turning his hand for Schofield to see: There is a narrow smudge of blood on his palm, and when Schofield looks closer, he can see a shallow gash in the pale skin above Blake's hip. "I'm alright?" Blake says again, breathing heavily. Schofield gives a single nod, and he looks his friend over, searching for any other injury, but he only finds the gash on Blake's cheek. 

"You're alright," Schofield says with another, slower nod. 

"You're alright."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German dialogue brought to you by Google Translate!


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Schofield feels like a thick fog has invaded his mind.

He's still buzzing with the adrenaline of whats just happened, but the danger has passed. And he is acutely aware of his own fraying emotions. He could do nothing more than stand impotent, watching with unseeing eyes as Blake walked over to Gale.

The nurse would not look at him- nor would Blake, the pair fully intent on acting as if Schofield was no longer there.

He understood- he deserved it, given what has just transpired.

If one were to ask, Schofield wouldn't be able to adequately explain what came over him, when he decided to level his gun at the nurse.  
  


He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the scene playing behind his eyes as if mocking him:

_"_ _You speak awfully good German for an English girl!" He spat, his voice harsh and filled with accusation._

_Gale was just beginning to pick herself up from the ground. When she sees the gun, her whole frame goes still, and her eyes grow wide._

_"I had to...." she sputters eyes locking on the glinting blade of Schofield's bayonet. "I-Ich habe alles getan was du wolltest. . ." She starts to whisper, a glaze forming over her eyes, and her mind places her back in that bunker._

_Rage fills Schofield, and he tightens his grip on the rifle._

_"Stop speaking, fucking German!"_

_A sudden crash from behind them makes the trio jump. The burning barn has collapsed, sending sparks and embers flying up into the skies. Schofield turns toward it: rattled._

_Then Blake is in front of Schofield, one hand shoving the gun towards the ground as the younger man stares at him as they've never met before._

_"Scho. . ." Blake starts, his voice fearful, and his shoulders shaking. "It's fine- we're fine . . . I'm sorry." Tears well in Blake's eyes, and he struggles for words._

_The words make little sense to Schofield; thinking is suddenly quite challenging for him. He watches as Blake's gaze floats to the dead German. "I should've- the Pilot. . . I-I'm sorry."_

_His anger rebounds- now accompanied by the realization that: If he had been a second slower- if his aim had not been true Blake would have been- He'd be-_

_Schofield tosses his gun into the dirt, and he latches onto Blake's shoulders with a steel grip. He shakes the younger man._

_"You could've been killed!" He shouts, and he curses how much the fear is making him shake. He looks at Blake again, his breath coming in great heaves._

_But Blake. . . Blake_ flinches _back from Schofield; he can't meet his gaze. Almost numbly, the young man backs away from Schofield's grip, and he turns his attention to Gale. Leaving Schofield to collapse on his knees with a huff and he watches Blake:_

_Damn him!_

_He was so fucking naive, ready to throw his life into the maws of death, and for what? Some Godforsaken medal? He took the mission without question. Saved Gale without hesitation, and didn't spare a second to try and help their enemy._

_Schofield wasn't sure who that was going to kill first: Blake._

_Or him._

"Scho!"

Blake's frightened voice snaps him back to attention. Schofield rose to his feet, scrambling to where Blake was fretting over a dazed Gale. The brunette looks over his shoulder at Schofield as he rushed to pull gauze from his kit.

"He effing cut her Sco."

As he approaches, Schofield sees the grey of Gale's sleeve rapidly going red.

"Let me see," Schofield orders.

Kneeling next to Gale, he gently grabs her arm, looking at the torn cotton of her sleeve. But Gale flinches back from him. Her hand is scratching at the dirt as she tried to pull herself away from Schofield.

That hurt him, and he deserved it.

"Please be still." he forces himself to look her in the eye, trying his best to push his shame away.

She stops struggling immediately, the petrified look never relaxing from her face, she only gives a curt nod.

Schofield nods back and returns his attention to her wound. Using his hands, he tears the tattered sleeve away:

The cut is deep, running up the side of her forearm. Blood painted her pale skin red and was starting to drip on the ground. Schofield says nothing, his jaw setting as he hastily reaches into his own pockets for a roll of bandages. While he fumbles, Schofield can hear Blake speak up.

"Gale stay still for me," He hears Blake ask. The younger man’s breath hitches as he pulls a square of gauze free from one of his many pouches and handing it to Schofield.

  
She doesn’t seem to hear him, her eyes finding the growing stain of blood at his side.

"Your hurt." Gale's voice was firm; she immediately starts to move for the gauze

"N-No, I'm fine." Blake stutters, looking to Schofield, confused.

"Let me." Gale grabs at the gauze in Blake's hands. She missed at first, finding his wrist and fumbling for the bandage.

"Gale, I'm alright, let's get you fixed up."

"Let me do my - it's my job," she says. Their voices intermingling as Schofield feels irritation grow in him again- He grabs her arm and squeezes, His hand enveloping a large portion of her arm, and he can't help but wince at the feeling of blood on his skin.

Gale lets out a startled gasp and fumbles back into a sitting position. Schofield gestures to Blake, who belatedly shoves the gauze pad at him.

Schofield replaces his hand with the dressings pressing firmly and using his free hand to wrap the roll into place. The second that Schofield has tied the bandage off, Gale is pulling her hand back.

She fixes him with a look- irritation peeking out from behind trepidation. There is a brief moment where the two simply stare at each other before Gale turns her attention back to Blake.

He's been dismissed, and Schofield feels himself pulling away. Giving Gale the room she needs to tend to Blake: Who isn't too keen on being fretted over. The young man insists that he's alright, that the wound isn't serious, but Gale will not be deterred.

It was almost funny, Schofield thinks as the nurse puts a hand on Blake's shoulder, and with that strange power, only a woman could possess- she convinces the younger man to recline on the ground.  
  


Schofield watches the nurse expertly remove his webbing and open his shirt. She pauses just briefly at the blood staining his belly.

The wound left by Blakes bayonet is small but deep. The blade punctured the flesh above his hip, and the bleeding was more severe than Schofield first thought, but not so bad Blakes life was in immediate danger.

Wordlessly, Schofield produces his lone square of gauze, and his last roll of dressings then presents them to the nurse.

A pause.

She doesn't move.

Schofield's forgotten -

"Here, take this," he adds, pushing his hand forward until the gauze was in her line of sight. Gale blinks at its sudden appearance, and she turns her attention to Schofield. She reaches for the roll, missing slightly before her fumbling hand found the kit.

She mumbles quiet thanks, and Schofield almost flinches at the second dismissal. He recoils, suddenly feeling unwelcome.

Blake watches him as he moves back several paces, and Schofield sees the conflict in Blake's face. But its whisked away when Gale presses the gauze to his wound.

She cooes quietly when the younger man cries out, and Schofield finds himself watching the exchange with a small measure of awe.

How did she find the strength?

It must have been reflex for the nurse, going about one's duty without a second thought; Even when pushed beyond the pale of exhaustion.  
Schofield never gave much thought to what must have been the innumerable women behind the lines. The nursing sisters who work, day in and day out - doing all in their power to save the lives of shattered and broken men, even if they were injured and ill themselves. He found himself imagining That Gale's state was not dissimilar to ones the men found themselves in at times.

It was a sobering thought. To be confronted with the reality that Britain’s women were enduring this Great War just as its men were, and his thoughts started to drift towards home.

"What's going on 'ere?"

The sound of a new voice makes Schofield jump. He twirls around- and damn him! He’s dropped his gun!

"It's alright! It's ok!" A second voice.

Schofield finds two privates; he didn't recognize where they were from. But he knew they were friends. And Schofield finds he’s ripped his hatchet free from its holding. Everyone is still for a long moment; the two newcomers watching Schofield with wide eyes as the man slowly lowers his weapon and releases his fright with a sigh.

It is then that the newcomers notice the nurse and Blake.

"Jesus. . . what's going on?" the second man asks his voice filled with concern and urgency.

Schofield turns to his - companions, yes. . . he can still call them that. And he sees Blake's horrified expression, as his pale belly has been left bare. But Gale seems to ignore the new development; instead, she presses on, trying to wrap Blakes abdomen with inadequate dressings.

"Was it the plane?"

Schofield flinches at the sudden question and turns to face the Private. He nods belatedly, taking a moment to put his hatchet back in its sheath. When he picks up his head again, he's shocked.

A third soldier.

A Captain.

The man is tall and square in the shoulders, and the bill of his cap almost covers his eyes as he observes the scene with a stoic gaze. For a moment, he seems to study the dead German Pilot before he starts to pick his way across the grass. As he approaches, Blake pulls himself to his feet and rushes to make himself presentable.

"We saw the smoke." the Captain starts coming to a stop a few feet in front of Schofield. "The Hun was expected, but not you." he pauses, setting his eyes on Schofield. He stands a little straighter and nods slightly before explaining:

"We were sent from the Eighth Sir, to deliver a message to the 2nd Devon's."

The Captain's chin dips down slightly in understanding. His head moving as he looks at Gale, an expression of deep concern crossing his features.

"The nearest Clearing Station is nearly thirty miles from here." he pauses eyes flickering back to Schofield, accusing. _Demanding_.

"We came across her, clearing a German Bunker, Sir," Schofield explains hastily. Behind him, Blake moves forward to stand at his side, gingerly tightening his webbing back into place.

Something changes in Captain Smith's face. A look mixed with equal parts horror and anger flashes through his eyes as the man sets his jaw.

"I see." There was a long pause before the Captain moves again. Schofield casts a glance at Blake and takes a moment to examine the shorter man- the gash on his cheek has swelled considerably, but the bleeding seems to have stopped.

"Where are the Second stationed Lance Corporal?" The Captain asks, looking between the two men—his gaze lingering on the injured Blake for a short moment.

"Just beyond Ecoust, sir," Blake answers, his voice slightly muffled.

Again, the Captain only nods, he gestures to the two privates behind him.

"Collect their things."

"Sir." - "yes sir," they answer in concert as the two move to pick up the men's scattered guns and Schofield's helmet.

"We're passing through Ecoust. We can take you some of the way."

"Sir." Schofield nods before turning his attention to Blake. Then to Gale. Who was hanging back behind them, looking bewildered and trying to make herself somewhat presentable- She's managed to straighten her tippet, but between the grime and blood, her dress and apron are unsalvageable.

Schofield feels pity stab at him.

"We are traveling with some medical officers; we'll get you squared away," Smith explains, turning and taking several steps up the hill. Blake and Schofield drag themselves forward. The two privates return and hand them their things.

Smith pauses at the top of the hill; he gestures for the soldiers to continue through the house as he takes a moment to speak with Gale. Schofield finds himself lingering behind, and Blake soon pauses with him.

He can hear the Captain greet Gale softly and offers his arm for her to take. Schofield feels something in his stomach twist as he realizes that he's not even thought to provide the nurse a moment of support.

No. Instead he belittles and threatens her.

Schofield bites his bottom lip, and he turns away, wondering: just what kind of man has he become?

Meanwhile, Gale is trying to refocus herself as more new things came to assail her haggard self. She is pulled together enough to recognize the man approaching her as a Captain and does her best to stand straight when he approaches.

The man has a severe pull in his jaw, but his eyes soften as he lifts an arm for her to take. And she _is_ grateful for even a small amount of relief as she begins to feel- _wrung thin_.

"What is your name, Sister?" the man asks in a deep but gentle voice. She perks her head up to look at the Captain. When she does not answer right away, he offers his own.

“I am Captain Smith.” He explains with an imploring tone.

"Sister Milby, sir," Gale answers in return, then she _stops_.

Hang on. . .

She pauses, brows creasing together at the words which fumbled from her mouth. The name sprouted forth from nothing, and Gale fixes her bleary gaze on the space in front of her. Almost expecting to see the words float off as suddenly as they came and she isn't sure if she believes what she's just said.

“Gale, sir.”

"Sister Milby. . .” Smith begins a small smile making its way across his face. “Can you tell me where you were last stationed?”  
  


Gale mulls this over for a moment. The names of places and things slowly floated from the fog in her head. But not one of them sounded _right_.

'I'm sorry, I can't-" she cut herself short, becoming increasingly frustrated at herself.

"That's alright. . ." Smith assures her in a commiserating tone. He gives her wrist a gentle squeeze as he leads her through the house.

In moments Gale became aware that there were dozens of men milling around the house, and all once a rush fell across them: whispers and shocked exclamations. They all stare at her- some shocked speechless, others scramble to cover themselves. And Gale feels herself become something of a spectacle. She moves her arm to hide her wound from wandering eyes and ignore their stares. Her attention seized of rumbling engines that stood in front of her.

Blake and Schofield are waiting outside, observing as Smith rejoins them. He then leads the trio to the head of his small caravan. Blake falling in line behind Gale- she can see he’s watching her with deep concern, but she can do very little to ease his nerves.

Instead, her eyes fall on the officer's car they are approaching. Inside it, a rather portly fellow was barking orders some men who were fumbling about with a _tree_. Of all things! The sight of it gives her pause.

"Can you make it around?" she hears the man ask his sergeant, impatiently. But Smith interrupts before the other officer could answer.

"Colonel Collins, we have a situation."

Collins makes a sound as he turns. He noticed Gale immediately, his eyes going wide with shock, and she feels herself recoil before he can even speak.

"My Lord, Smith!" he exclaims, turning fully, "Explain this at once!"

The Colonel was in a state, his eyes wide with horror at seeing such a delicate thing in such a horrible state. Smith explains the situation briefly and a flush of red colors, the man's already sweating brow.

"Barbarians, the lot of them!" he spits, a look of pure disgust on his face. "Get Peaslee to look her over, that wound is horrendous - a botched execution. No doubt!"

Gale flinches at the Colonel's words, her hand coming up to hide the ugly thing. But she feels Blake swipe his hand over her wrist, and he makes a quiet sound behind her.

Smith says something to Collins in a hushed tone, and the man gave a barking noise.

"Of course! I'll have arrangements made to have the lady taken to _Agnez-lès-Duisans_ once we rendezvous with the Newfoundland's!"

Gale pays closer attention now- the name Duisans sounding familiar somehow. She watches as Smith opens his mouth to protest:

"Duisans is nearly fifteen miles away, sir, _Achiet-le-Grand_ is only eight."

"Yes, yes, but eight miles in the wrong _direction_ , Captain!" says Collins wagging a finger at the Captain. "We've been delayed enough as it is! Now go on, get this lot squared away."

The Colonel makes a gesture over his shoulder, and Smith takes his leave.

The trio moves, falling in step behind Smith as he led them back. The third vehicle in the caravan was an ambulance.

Outside, Gale sees a slender bloke leaning against the lorry smoking. On his arm, the white cuff of the Red Cross stood out bright from his khaki.

"Peaslee," Smith calls gesturing to Gale just as the man took notice of the woman. His eyes went wide, and he puts out his cigarette underfoot.

"Sir!" the man named Peaslee gives a crisp salute. He took in the sight before him, mouth worrying in thought for a moment before words came forth. "An unexpected guest, sir."

"Quite-" Smith moves to gesture for Gale to come forward, she abides with little protest. "The young miss here seems to have run afoul with some Boshe- you'll give her your best?"

Peaslee nods once, already looking over the wound with eyes that told Gale of his experience.

"Of course, sir," he focuses his gaze and smiles gently at Gale. "It will be just a moment 'ma'am I must prepare the lorry."

Gale nods slightly and watches the medic turn around and begin going about his task. She hears Peaslee call out to a chap named 'Burton' as he clambers into the truck.

Gale takes in a deep breath, feeling anxiety flutter in her chest. She slowly turns, looking up to Captain Smith with a nervous expression. But the Captain only offers a warm smile. He was an observant man and took a step back to allow her to speak with the men who saved her.

Blake looks a tad bit upset, his smile struggling to form when she looks at him.

"These men will take good care of you," He starts, bringing himself marginally closer to the woman. Gale manages a small smile and nods before looking at Schofield.

The man is lingering back, and he’s visibly struggling with the shame of his earlier. . . outburst.

Gale does not _blame_ him for what happened; she’s seen far too many men driven made with fright to hold any anger against the one who helped save her.

"Thank you." she manages. Schofield somehow manages to grow even tenser at her words, a look of pure anguish growing on his face. Tears spring up in his eyes, and he can only nod his thanks at her forgiveness.

Gale grips at her dress and takes in a deep breath. She doesn’t know quite what it was the two men had to get done. But from their constant chattering about it, their mission to the Devon's must have been dire.

"And God's speed," she adds, fighting a tightness in her throat. She turns as suddenly as she can manage and finds the medic, Peaslee, waiting.

Smith returns in short order, waving Blake and Schofield away.

Blake lingers a moment, his eyes watching Gale as she is helped into the lorry. Schofield pauses and waits before putting a knowing hand on Blake's shoulder. They share a look before Blake allows Schofield to lead him away.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French communes of Agnez-lès-Duisans and Achiet-le-Grand both housed British Casualty Clearing Stations during the Great War. 
> 
> Achiet-le-Grand was closer to Bapume ((Where Captain Smith and his men cross No-Mans-Land in the movie)) and Agnez-lès-Duisans is located near Arras.
> 
> Another note: the appearance of a vehicular troop convoy in WWI would be a bit of an oddity since a mass majority of troop movement was done via marching. Or on horseback, if you were the Calvary.


	7. Intermission

* * *

To be a Regiments Medical Officer- and to be separated from his Regiment was only one of the great many hardships Peaslee was forced to face in this God forsaken war. 

The man found himself thinking about these challenges far too often on this march- much to his own aggravation. 

He sighs, lighting a cigarette as he leans against the canvas of his ambulance. He has some forlorn hope that the tobacco will chase of the images of his brethren dying in fields while he’s too far away to render any help at all. 

Not that his presence helped the boys much back in Beaumont any. 

Peaslee quickly inhales the first cigarette, burning off half in the first go, trying to smother those bloodied memories away as he watches groups of men start to mill around the stalled caravan.

They explore an abandoned French homestead- searching, for the source of a fire that sent black smoke billowing into the skies. Or they stood by, examining a decaying dog that lay dead on the side of the road. A great number of the scattered rabble had decided the side of the house looked a nice place to make an impromptu privy. 

On the second drag Peaslee turns to look over the rolling fields instead, his irritation growing. 

  
He should be with his men, digging in and overseeing the construction of aid posts- doing his job with the New Foundlands. Not here, not standing around and waiting for this motley group of Royal. . . buffoons to wrestle with every twig they encountered on the road. 

If that Collin’s bastard had been sensible and marched these men in a proper fashion – instead of dabbling with the so called “modern convinces” this band of Casuals would have been in Arras by now.   
Horses and their carts (specially designed for marching across countryside such as this) could have simply walked around the trice damned trees or jumped over the collapsed ditches with ease. But no, this mechanized march could do no such thing- whatever they made up for in ease of control they lost in the simple fact that they were rendered useless the moment they were driven off of a well beaten path. 

“Damn it all.” He mutters smiting the used fag into the mud and immediately reaching for another. 

There was a small ruckus from the house, the noise reaching his ears, but he spends too much time wrestling with his lighter to see what it was. 

He does however turn around to look at the drivers side of the caravan when he hears the unmistakable sound of Colonel Collins, barking and shouting, like the crotchety old dog he was.   
Peaslee spends the next few minutes trying to stop the shaking in his hands while images of the boys flicker in his mind- he curses all of this idling! Thinking all this axiety would fade into the fog at the back of his mind if he simply had something to do. 

He should have known better than to think such things. . . 

“Peaslee.” 

Almost like an act from God, the moment Peaslee turns around he’s face to face with Captain Smith, but this isn’t cause for concern. No, the concern comes from the nurse who is wobbling on his arm.   
Peaslee immediately stamps out his cigarette and stands straight, a long moment passes as he tries to get his mind churning again. 

A nursing sister, a woman, here of all places? 

“Sir!” he chirps with only a moments delay. 

The poor thing! He looks the nurse over, blood has stained much of one side of her, there is muck all about her once pristine dressings. His stomach rolls as he comes to grip with what this might mean. “An unexpected guest, Sir.” 

The medic forces his eyes off the nurse as Smith offers some abbreviated explanation for this outrage. 

“You’ll give her your best?” 

Peaslee says nothing but nods curtly, he scans the woman again, there is a gash on her arm, and she seemed to be limping when she first ambled up – but it was the wound to her head that needed the most attention. 

“Of course, Sir.” 

His mind is abuzz, already the things he would need to pull from storage are forming a list in his head. 

“It will be just a moment ma’am. I must prepare the lorry.” He states as a means of excusing himself. He turns swiftly and hauls himself into the truck. 

The ambulance had been packed to the gills with supplies for his return to the Regiment- stretchers meant to carry wounded were covered in crates with only one bench being available to work with. He

calls to his orderly – Burton to begin moving things about.   
Peaslee dives into his personal kit- a big leather bag from a bygone era. There he finds his most reliable tools- and he begins to stuff them into his numerous pockets. 

“Whats the trouble sir?” Burton asks- his eyes are wide and Peaslee knows he’s caught sight of the woman. 

“We have a patient.” Peaslee answers quickly. “Prepare some basins and water- we’ll be spending the rest of this trip working I’m sorry to say.”

He was sorry in a sense- sorry for the woman and her horrid state. As her very appearance here implies a great many sins that could only be attributed to the War which, in Peaslee’s mind was devouring any and all sense of decency in the world. 

But some small part of him was grateful to have something to distract him from the gnawing anxiety of not being where he was supposed to be. This in of itself filled him with its own sense of guilt.   
From what he’s seen, the poor woman may end up like so many of the New Foundlands that came under his care before this. And that is to say: she may already be, beyond his help. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have a little blurb that I couldn't get to fit in anywhere else - so I'll give it to you as a little treat. Enjoy!
> 
> Our poor Officer here briefly thinks about the Battle of Beaumont-Hamel- which was fought on the opening day of the Battle of the Somme on July 1st, 1916, wherein the Newfoundland Regiment suffered catastrophic losses. Of the 800 men who went into battle, only 68 men survived the fighting unscathed.
> 
> For their sacrifices and acts of gallantry, the Newfoundlands were given the designation of 'Royal' - It is the only Regiment to earn this honor over the course of WWI, and in the 1920s Newfoundland bought land on the site of the battle and erected a series memorials- one of which is a giant bronze Caribou which honors those men who were lost and have known grave. 
> 
> The Newfoundland Regiment was rebuilt and went to participate in the battles of Ypres and Cambrai. In April 1917 they were deployed to participate in the Battle of Arras.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just going to throw a small warning up here: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of injuries and period-appropriate treatment methods.

* * *

Peaslee was a pleasant man; Gale thought him a perfect example of what made an excellent medical officer. Or, she would have thought that, if she could get any thoughts to stay in her mind for more than a few moments at a time. Now that the excitement was gone and the lorry was moving, Gale's aptitude fell _swiftly_. Every time her eyes were closed for too long, Peaslee would give her a gentle shake and summons.

This continued for several minutes before Peaslee proceeded to pop a small stamp looking item onto Gale's tongue. The pleasant fruity flavor distracted her from the pure absurdity of his actions. Whatever the concoction was, it helped to push Gale's fatigue away, and she stops nodding off every time Peaslee wanted to inspect her injury.

A task made all the more difficult by her filth matted hair. In time the officer conceited with a sigh and shook his head, "I am sorry, Sister, but I'm afraid we'll have to cut this." 

Gale responds with a slow nod. If she were in a better state, she'd have protested; she’s always had long hair. It was a point of pride- managing to keep it in a presentable state for so long into the war when so many of her fellow Sisters cut their’s short or shaved their locks away altogether.

"No place for niceties in war, I'm afraid." murmurs Peaslee, turning Gales thoughts to words as she had little strength to do much else but sit there and listen.

He produces scissors and gets to work, trimming the hair as close as he dares.

The man is quick about it and only jabs her in the scalp once when the lorry bounced off a rut. With that task finished the orderly, Burton makes sure to swipe the discarded hair out the truck's back.

"A shame Miss." was all he said on the matter.

Gale's only response is a small grunt, which garnered closer attention from the men. Peaslee moves to kneel in front of the nurse. Gently examining her eyes and taking a moment to debate where the blood around her ear came from.

"Burton, have you filled the injury tag?" he inquires, watching Gale's eyes as he moves his hand in and out of the light.

"Not yet, sir - gunshot to the head, yes?"

"Yes- injury to the scalp: open gutter wound- approximately. . . 1 centimeter by 8 centimeters affecting the frontal and temporal regions. Swelling, and subconjunctival hemorrhaging of the right eye, Tell me, Sister, can you see from this side?"

Gale blinks, not responding for a long moment, the answer hard in coming. Peaslee waits patiently, watching the wheels slowly turn in the woman's mind.

"Very, blurry, Sir." she sputters. Peaslee nods with a more worried hum.

"Note impaired vision, and difficulties speaking," he orders, taking a moment to examine her ear again. "Can you hear me, Miss?" he asked, Gale does not answer.

Peaslee looks to Burton.

"As well as the possibility of hearing loss." 

He sat in front of Gale again, staring at the woman with eyes that seem to see through her. He waited a moment before pulling away and reaching for a jug of water.

"Burton clean this as best you can- I will prepare a treatment of Paraf-"

The lorry lurched, and water splashed the sides of the truck. The vehicle sunk in mud and slowed as it labored through muck that was sent flying out behind the lorry.

The sudden movement made Gales head spin, and she managed a groan as her stomach churned.

"A waste pan Burton!" Peaslee barks. Swiftly moving aside and putting a hand to the back of Gale's neck, as the woman rapidly turns green. Burton was almost as quick, shoving the pan just below Gale's mouth when she doubles over and vomits.

There wasn't much to be brought up, just the water she was given by- by who?

Gale groans again, closing her eyes a moment as her stomach continued to twist and turn. She knew there was someone, multiple someone's. . . Tommie's! They had names - what were their names?

"Easy Miss." cooed Peaslee rubbing soothing circles on her back. "It will pass in a moment."

She only gave a small nod, her shoulders jumping when something cold was pressed to the back of her neck. Gale follows it with another groan - the pounding in her head becoming like a beating drum.

Peaslee moves away, shuffling through crates until he found a bottle containing _hyoscine_ tablets to soothe Gale's nausea. Before beckoning Burton to take note of the medicines and symptoms, she was exhibiting. It was not until the tablet took effect that she noticed the lorry was not moving.

"Have we...stopped?" she manages, slowly picking up her head.

Peaslee hums in acknowledgment, gently pressing a hand to Gale's head.

"Yes, it would seem the Casuals truck got trapped in that mud pit back there," he explains, shaking his head. He pauses as a chorus of shouting wafts passed the lorry. Peaslee is still just long enough to determine that the ruckus does not require his presence, "Sounds like they're having a rough time getting it out – Please hold still, Miss."

Gale took in a breath from her nose and did her best not to flinch when she feels something cold press against the hot skin around her wound. There was a gentle scraping sensation, and she realized - he was shaving her remaining hair. He focused on the area immediately around the wound.

"Might as well get this done while we’re stopped," he explains. Moving swiftly to clean the area, he again turned to Burton, who had traded a wound tag for a small notebook. Peaslee told him what he saw:

Heat, swelling, and drainage, signs of infection. A small segment of exposed bone that needed immediate care- no signs of gangrene – Thank Heavens.

"We can't irrigate the wound here," Peaslee announces. Twisting around, he pours water into a cloth and gently pressed it to the area around the injury. He hushed Gale gently when she hisses at the pain.

Suddenly, a Sergeant thrust his head into the lorry. He produces a ceramic flask and a bundle wrapped in cheesecloth.

"From the Colonel," he announces, eyeing Gale solicitously, he manages a curt nod when the nurse turns to face him. "Ma'am."

Burton took the food, and the Sergeant disappeared as quickly as he came. The orderly put the gift into a small box stuffed with straw and reached for something else in another crate.

"Should we at least try the Daiken Solution, sir?” he asked, sorting through a variety of pre-packaged bandages. Peaslee considered this a moment, his body rocking lightly as the lorry began to move again.

“The best we could do is soak a bandage in it,” Peaslee explains, taking the bandages. “But it's not recommended, the Iodine will do.” There was a pause as Peaslee takes a moment to think something over.

“Have you noted all of this?”

"Yes, sir - the faculty at _Duisans_ will be well informed."

Burton hands Peaslee a bandage soaked in iodine. Peaslee put it aside and took a heap of BIPP from its tin. He paused, making a small noise before gesturing to Burton.

"Give the lady a dose of Aspirin, will you? 7 grains, Powdered if we have it."

Burton complies quickly, presenting the Aspirin in a folded piece of paper and tipping it onto Gale's tongue. He followed it swiftly by a helping of what looked to be split pea soup from the flask given to them by the Colonel.

Gale immediately voiced her displeasure at the soup, her shoulders sinking in profound disappointment at the flavor that met her tongue. Burton rose a brow at this and exchanged the watery broth for the contents of the cheesecloth: Ham and Cheese.

"Very good," Peaslee announced. Putting one hand on Gale's head, "Hold still a moment, this may be somewhat painful."

Burton put the food aside and shuffles over to take Gale by the shoulders before Peaslee moves to smear the BIPP into her wound.

The Aspirin did little to dull the pain, but thankfully, Gale was not overcome by nausea again. Peaslee packs the wound with paste, making commiserating sounds as he works. Once satisfied, he presses the bandage over the wound and got to work, wrapping her head thoroughly.

"You've done well, Sister," he tells her with another squeeze on her shoulder. "Please try to eat some more."

With this business concluded. Gale sinks back against the side of the lorry. Her pain abates and leaves behind profound fatigue. The same which has been following her since the moment she opened her eyes back. . .

Back when?

She made a small noise of frustration.

There **was** a before. Gale could recall being in cities bombed beyond recognition. The screams and smells of wrecked men in hospitals far from here. She remembered images of a dark pressing station. Carved from stone that cast long rat shaped shadows across the walls.

But it was all jumbled, it all felt far away and there was some grate span of fog blocking her memory.

Gale breathed again, taking in the faint and fusty scent of hay and death wafting into the lorry.

_A barn, cows alive and dead, rolling pastures. Fallen trees: cherries love._

_Blake._

A wheezing sound escapes Gale, so that was the tommie's name. Wasn't there more than one of them?

The lorry lurches to a halt again, its breaks squeaking from the effort.

"Oh, what now?" grumbles Burton turning toward the front of the ambulance. "Driver! What's the hold-up!"

"Bridge is out!" came a sharp reply.

"A detour then," Peaslee notes, pilfering a few bites of the ham and bread. He wilts on the bench, a hand swiping at his eyes. "The Newfoundlands may not be there by the time we arrive."

Peaslee sighs with displeasure and reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

“Newfoundland?” murmurs Gale tipping her head back to look at the men, she manages a small smile. “I thought that accent sounded out of place.”

Peaslee smiles and nods once.

“Yes ma’am, have you ever traveled to the New World?”

Gale’s smile fades and she shakes her head.

“Can’t say. . . never had the chance.” She explains with a heavy sigh.

“Ah, that’s a shame miss.” Peaslee starts leaning back against the bench. “It’s a beautiful place, filled with all the Natural beauty The Lord could fit in once place.” He starts, his mind wandering home in a fashion he rarely allowed for himself. Because the warmth the memories gave him always turned hollow and that space was often filled with sorrow for all of the lads who would never see the towering sea cliffs and forests of their beloved Island.

Gale watches as Peaslee argues with himself, struggling to bury something as his mouth worries, then he coughs and stands.

“Keep her awake, Burton.” He commands as the medic heaved himself out of the lorry and found himself almost jumping into Captain Smith.

"All is well, Peaslee?" he inquires, leaning to look at Gale. His eyes fixating on the white wrappings around her head before turning his attention back to the medic.

Peaslee moves off. Making a small gesture to the Captain as he walked closer to the truck behind them, which worried Smith considerably.

"She's in a bad state, sir." he began lighting his fag and taking a long draw. "The wound is a day old at least, infections started to set- and she's drifting in and out of consciousness," he explained

"Too late to save her, then?" Smith questions, his voice dipping low in a remorseful tone.

Peaslee took another deep drag of his cigarette, thoughtful.

"Perhaps," he answers moments later. He looks about the caravan. Men were jumping out of the trucks, looking at the shelled-out town across the channel. Some were wandering the other way to relieve themselves in the ditch or near the scattered trees.

"Perhaps not." Peaslee continues. "Head wounds are tricky business, and I've done all that I can while we're on the move," he concludes, shoulders slumping.

There was silence for a few strides as Smith pauses to speak with the Driver of the next truck. "What are we going to do next, Captain?"

"Debating if we should detour or attempt to make this bridge crossable."

Smith pointed his cane at the bridge as it came into view between the last two vehicles.

"The Boshe were kind enough to leave us a few trees that could prove useful."

"That would take time, sir." Peaslee murmurs, already feeling his shoulders strain at the prospect. “And my patient needs proper care at once. Smith nods in agreement and slows to a stop.

“I’ll relay that to the Colonel- I don’t fancy the idea of sitting about this place,” Smith adds, casting a wary glance across the channel. Peaslee hums with a nod, not liking the way the town stared back at him.

  
Near to them, the two men from the 8th Surreys were standing apart, one refilling his canteen from a petrol can while the other stared out over Ecoust.

Peaslee saw one with a swollen and seeping wound on his face. Losing a sigh, he walked up to them, leaving Smith to speak with the last Driver.

"Gentlemen."

The two turn to regard the medic, their discussion cut short. Peaslee points his near finished cigarette at the younger man's injury. "Should have that tended to lad."

"Of course, we’ve plenty of time." the boy snaps, wriggling his canteen into place. His tone was patronizing as he stared at the taller man next to him. Peaslee rose a brow, watching the older one tense at the shoulders and go slightly red in the cheeks.

Peaslee cleared his throat, distracting the two from their argument as he dug his hands into his kit.

"Luckily for you, I come well equipped." Peaslee proclaims as he produced the tin of BIPP, a bandage, and tape from his various pockets. Blake opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself and stood still as the medical officer went about covering the wound.

"Nothing to be done about the swelling, I'm afraid." Peaslee offers with some sympathy as he presses the last of the tape to the young mans' cheek.

Blake voices his thanks; then something flashes in his eyes. The young man moves back and points at the Surgeon.

"Say, have you been looking after of Ga- Sister Milby?" he asks, concerned, "Is she holding up, alright?"

"So you're the ones she came up with," Peaslee notes with a small nod. "She's keeping on, as best as one can."

His answer was somewhat vague, but before Blake could press him, Captain Smith came over to join the group.

"We have to detour," the Captain announces, looking between the two soldiers, "The next crossing is six miles away."

Blake and Schofield look at each other, their expressions growing grim.

"That may take too long." Schofield murmurs, looking back to Smith and ignoring the exasperated look Blake shoots at him. 

The Captain stood a little straighter, nodding in resignation as he looks over the river.

"This is where we leave you then." he offers the men his hand, giving them luck.

"Keep an eye out for the Germans," Smith warns, turning around, but pausing. "Oh, and Corporal." Smith paused, turning back to look Schofield in the eye. "If you reach Mackenzie, ensure there are witnesses."

Confusion washes over Blake's expression while Schofields grew cold.

"Some men just want the fight." It was the only explanation that Smith could give as he turns and walks away.

"Understood, Sir," Schofield calls before the Captain was out of reach.

"Well," remarks Peaslee lighting a second cigarette. He tips his cap to the boys. "Best of luck to you."

Blake watches the officer go, jaw hanging slightly. He turns to Schofield for an explanation. But the older man only let out a long, steadying breath. His expression was turned to stone as he turns to face Ecoust.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have lots of medical terms! So I've taken a moment to explain some of the things mentioned in this chapter.  
> First is: Drugs, and things related to them: 
> 
> Peaslee treats Gale's fatigue with an item called: A Medicated Geltine Lamel - one company: Savory and Moore's produced Medicated Lamels for the BEF during the war, these small stamp-like items consisted of a variety of drugs that were put into sets and kept in red leather envelopes. They were also used to help patients during the Spanish Flu Pandemic.
> 
> The lamel Peaslee gives Gale is Cascara extract- which primarily contains caffeine and is made from "Coffee-Cherries"  
> Other drugs used in the chapter are: 
> 
> Hyoscine - Or Scopolamine, a drug used to treat nausea. In the Great War, it was most often used to relieve sea-sickness.  
> BIPP - Standing for Bismuth Iodoform Paraffin Paste, was used as an early anti-septic and analgesic for the treatment of wounds.  
> Asprin - A wonder drug first patented in the 1890s in Germany and quickly became one of the world's most popular pain relievers.  
> Iodine - An anti-septic that was often swiped over wounds - it also came in presoaked bandages to ward off infection.  
> Grain- An antiquated unit of measurement that was commonly used during WWI. 1 Grain is the equivalent of 64 milligrams.


	9. Intermission 2

* * *

"Bloody shame that was - we've found the only Fritz who could _actually_ hit the broadside of a barn!" 

The gaggle inside the truck all laugh, some not nearly as amused by Blakes joking as the younger man would have hoped for, but then one of the lads piped up.

"Too bad, he needed a damn plane to do it!"

_That_ caused a rise in the laughter - Blake's shoulders jumping and his face split into a smile as a red-headed fellow clapped him on the back. It made his wounds ache, but the joviality helped soothe the fright that seemed to have made itself at home in his chest.

"If only the whole German army fought like that - we could've been back in Blighty by now."

"Nah, that would have been too easy for us." murmured a more dower man; he looked at Blake with a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes and offered a hand. “Butler.”

“Blake.” He responds, taking the hand with a single shake, then the other men started to introduce themselves. 

The quarters in the truck were tight, Blake and Schofield's arrival removing the last inches of wiggle room in the lorry. At first, the group seemed intent on ignoring the newcomers as they launched into some story about a latrine trench and the unfortunate fate of their captain's coat. Blake couldn't resist but tell a story of his own, and it quickly got the whole truck chattering on.

But Blake discovered that Schofield hadn’t said a word all the while, The older man had been silent since getting into the truck. Having turned his back to them, he was pouring over the pictures of his girls - something Blake had never seen him do in the presence of others before. 

He seemed to have taken issue with Blakes attempt to make jolly at the whole: nearly dying business, they'd just endured.

"What's his problem then?” asked one of the men, Cooke – as he handed Blake a cigarette. Blake looked at the thing for a moment, he wasn’t one for smoking, but the thing looked more inviting now than it had in the past. He pinches it between his fingers and gives it a brief inspection.

“Oi,” chirped Butler, kicking at the younger man, “No smoking in the lorry.”

“Piss off.” Barked Cooke tossing his empty fag box at the sergeant. “You’re the one who smokes like a damn chimney.”

Blake waved off the argument, holding the cigarette in his lips as he drew his attention towards Schofield – his eyes catch on the Sepoy sitting across from him. Blakes never seen a Sepoy before, and he’d been trying his best not to stare at him, but the man who Blake only knew as “Johnny” wasn’t paying any mind to the younger man. Instead, his dark eyes were intently watching Schofield: there was worry in his expression.

Blake leaned over some and gently shook the Scho’s shoulder, his expression imploring when the older man jerked around to look at him.

Scho looks like he’s about to burst into tears, his eyes puffy and rimmed pink. Blake feels his chest squeeze- what was he so upset about? Blake finds himself sitting straighter, concern showing on his face. Schofield says nothing but makes a small gesture with his head before he slowly starts to turn in his seat. Tucking his pictures into his tin, and his tin into his pocket.

Blake wanted to know just what it was that had Scho so ragged- he’s seen him in states like this before, after big shellings, nightmares and the like, but they’d always been. . . well – isolated. To see him like this in front of other people had Blake, deeply concerned.

“So what it is then?’ asks Rossi, the smaller chap seated across from Scho. The question confuses Schofield's, and he shakes his head, not understanding.

“What's your problem, mate?” Rossi asks again, his tone impertinent, Schofield stiffens, and Blake can see a flash of anger in him. Blake sits up straighter, feeling his own anger perk up in defense of his friend.

“Don’t you talk to him like th-“

Whatever scolding he was about to unload on the private was cut short when the truck suddenly lurched to one side. Blake fell back against the canvas, and he bites back a sharp gasp when he feels the wound in his side tear open again.

Schofield suddenly has his hand in Blakes webbing, the man’s anguish pushed aside by sudden worry. Blake grabs his friend's wrist and nods.

All around them, the other men gasp or groan at the jostling as the truck continues to list, and mud flies up behind them.

A chorus of frustration rises from the men,

“Areshole needs driving lessons.” Mutters Cooke, leaning out the back of the truck.

“I’d like to see you do a better job, Private.” Butler snarks standing.

Schofield is moving, he leaps from the truck quickly, and Blake watches him a moment as the older man inspects the truck. His face is like stone, jaw set into a severe frown as Rossi and Butler join him outside the truck. Blake moves to stand, but it stopped by more stabbing pain in his hip. He grits his teeth and sinks back to the bench.

When he looks again, Blake finds Schofield staring at him, his eyes are intense, and it makes Blake think he’s about to be scolded. He feels a squeeze in his chest, thinking that Schofield was still angry with him.

“He should reverse,” Schofield announces, ripping his gaze from Blake and leaning to look at the driver.

Cooke is standing beside him, looking between the truck and Blake, he makes a vague shrugging motion. He mumbles a quick “yeah.” But does nothing, seemingly intent on watching the lorry bury itself further into the mud.

Schofield makes a face, casts a beleaguered glance to Blake, and trudges several paces forward, shouting to the driver.

Blake braces himself on the truck as the gears churn, and the wheels squeal again. But the truck is not freed. It doesn’t move, and after a moment, it continues to sink. Blake takes a deep inhale as annoyance grows in him; he looks over at some of the other men then flinches when Schofield starts to shout.

“Stop- _Stop!”_

The engines die, and Schofield trudges to the back – he looks at the men and waves his arm.

“Everyone needs to get out.” He barks- its an order, and only Blake recognizes the tone as being severe. He moves to stand again, but _holy hell -_ he flops back on the bench with equal parts anger and frustration – why did the wound hurt so much _more_ now? It hardly bothered him before.

The other men in the truck are also slow to respond to the stranger's orders, seemingly unaware of his greater rank.

“Come on!” snaps Schofield sounding every bit the proper- and irritated – officer. “All out!” Blake watches Scho point at the ground as if he were gesturing to a dog, and Blake starts to suspect that his friend is at his wit's end.

“Alright- Alright.” Grumbles Butler, standing as he pushes a cigarette between his lips. He leaps from the truck with a small ‘plop’ and looks at Schofield. “Keep ‘er hair on.”

Butler must have some form of effect on the rest of the casuals because now the rest were filing out. Blake sits back and waits his leg being jostled by one block and sending more pain up his belly. Blake tries pulling himself back as far as he can, and takes a deep breath, preparing to wrench himself from the truck as soon as the others were clear.

“Here.” There is a hand on his arm, and Blake flinches at the sudden contact- looking up, he is face to face with the Sepoy- Jondular. There is concern in the man's eyes and a careful warmth that, for a moment, reminds Blake of his father.

Blake takes the man's hand, and the Sepoy jumps from the truck first, helping Blake clamber down slowly. He uses the moment to look at the wound, the stain in his clothes hasn’t grown any, and from a quick glance, Blake can’t see any blood seeping from the bandages Gale wrapped around him.

Jondular is doing the same before he helps the younger man to solid ground a few feet away from the truck. Blake catches a glimpse of Schofield – his expression has slacked some, and he looks to Blake as if asking: are you alright?

Blake gives a short nod and claps the Sepoy on his arm a few times.

“Thanks, mate.” He huffs out, shifting his weight to his uninjured sign, Jondular nods and gently pats Blake on the shoulder before turning to watch what the men were going to do now.

The engines sputter again, and the wheel slips in the mud again.

“Alright,” Schofield starts looking around at the men as he steps back into the mud, “we’re going to have to push.”

Only a small handful of the men join him in the effort- and they only succeed in stopping the lorry from sinking more.

Blakes sees Cooke takes a step back from the truck, and he looks at Schofield, who is still leaning against the bumper.

“We need to get some wood.” He starts, and the men around him begin to nod, “get something under the wheels.” He adds, gesturing to the offending tire.

Blake checks his watch and pales at what he sees. He looks to Schofield, who is mid nod, reaching for his hatchet.

The branches from the felled tree beside them would do nicely.

“We haven’t got the time!” snaps Blake stepping forward with a jerking motion. The men all turn to look at him, and Blake stills. His eyes find Schofield, who is now checking his watch. He nods grimly and stuffs his hatchet back into place.

“We all have to push.” He says, moving back to the bumper, Blake takes another step but pauses as he’s the only one moving to pitch in. Schofield is overcome with that madness again: Blake can see it, as he tries to lift the truck alone.

His whole body shakes, and he shouts.

“Come on,”!

Blake can’t take it anymore and pushes himself to the truck, he almost falls into the bumper and grits his teeth as he adds his strength to Scho’s – but the taller man just shouts again.

“COME OOOON!”

Blake and Schofield push at the same time, but they don’t have the strength to move the truck. Blake's foot slips in the mud, and he almost strikes his forehead on the bumper, all the tension leaving his body in a frustrated shout.

“Please,” huffs Schofield, breathing heavily. “We have to go now.”

“Please!” Blake snaps, sounding every bit as desperate as his friend, and Blake can’t say if its from pain or fright.

“Alright,” Butler says, throwing his fag into the mud. “Come on, lads!” he waves to the men, moving to Schofields other side. “Come on!”

The men all gather at the truck and push as one. The machine groans, the tires spin, and there is a slight feeling of lift, but the thing puts all twenty men at the limits of their strength, and they heave, the wheel falling into the mud once more.

“Come on, boys!” snaps Rossi adjusting his grip and giving Blakes back a right smack for encouragement.

Schofield breaths heavily next to Blake, and his head is low.

“On three!” he barks – “One. Two. Three.”

They try again, Schofield screams, and Blake hears rage, he hears pain and frustration, and he feels a scream of his own growing in his chest as he pushes. But again, the truck drops, the men all gasp at its weight and stubbornness.

Rossi shouts again, looking about the gaggle.

“Come on, boys! One more push!”

Rossi counts to three, the men push all at once, and more than one of them starts to shout. Blake can swear he hears a pop, and he blanches as Schofield's shouting becomes high-pitched and laced with pain. He nearly stops his own efforts to check on Scho, but the truck starts to move.

The tires catch on something and lorry starts to move, the men move with it, one foot forward, then another, mud if flying at their chests and legs – then the truck is free with a lurch.

Schofield falls into the mud, sinking up to his elbows in it, and Blake nearly joins him as cheers rise up from the men at seeing the truck freed.

Blake puts his hands on his knees and struggles not to sob at the fire burning in his hip from the effort, and he sees Jondular helping a similarly laboring Schofield.

The taller man stands and squeezes his eyes shut when he straightens his back.

“Back in.” he starts, his voice faint. “Everyone. . . get back in.”

Schofield looks to Blake, reaching a hand to his friend as they follow the men back to the truck. Jondular is hanging around with them, his expression growing in worry as he looks the boys over.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes more on Schofield than Blake – but both nod. The Sepoy looks skeptical and only pats Schofield in the center of his chest as the darker-skinned man turns. Blake sees a sob rip up Schofield's throat, and the man ducks his head to stop himself from crying.

Blake wants desperately to ask what's troubling his friend so much, but not here – Schofield would never say anything in front of so many strangers.

They are both offered help as they move back into the truck, and Blake rechecks his dressings when he sits down.

“Shit!” he hisses, voice high when he sees scarlet bleeding through the bandages.

The men are all silent as Blake presses the wound, and blood comes up on his hands -he takes a moment to look at them, his eyes falling on Schofield his own face growing pale at the sight.

“It doesn’t look too serious, right?” he asks fear lacing his tone.

Butler lifts himself from his spot and kneels in front of Blake, leaning forward to take a closer inspection of the wound.

He brings up scissors to cut the soaked bandages away, and Blake ends up half off the bench, in a strange looking and very uncomfortable position. Blake looks away from Butler and finds that Scho is doubled over, his breathing deep and rough.

“Scho?” he asks, shifting his weight with a sudden need to be at his friend's side.

Schofield shakes his head and makes a vague gesture with one hand.

“I’m alright.” He says voice muffled.

“You two shouldn’t have worked so hard.” Says Cooke shaking his head at them. “Hurting yourselves trying to move a lorry.”

“That wasn’t it,” Schofield explains, leaning back again, his face twitching with pain. “Was beat up before we got here.”

“By what? The plane?” Malky asks, eyeing the two with some concern.

“Well. . .” starts Schofield tilting his head back to stare at the roof. “We’ve had a boche plane, and a boche bunker fall on us.”

There is a long pause; Butler moves from his spot and looks at Schofield.

“You should have taken a load off.” Butler hisses, reaching into his kit. But men are offering dressings, tape and a long-faced boy – Malky offers his whiskey.

“Or gone off to those bloody Colonials in the ambulance.” Rossi quips, offering Blake a shoulder to lean on as Butler wipes the wound clean and splashes it with the whiskey.

Blake barks out a short scream at the burning and shakes his head.

“Couldn’t do that.” He says, panting when Butler presses a thick wad of gauze to the wound. “The doc was already busy.”

The men all fall quiet at this, but Blake doesn’t really want to tell them what happened. He looks at Schofield, who is also slow to explain.

“What in the blazes are you two doing out here, to begin with.” Hisses Butler, taking considerable lengths of tape and crisscrossing it over the bandages, before taking a roll from Jondular.

“We have to get to the Second Devons.” Schofield starts, drawing the attention to him as Butler shoves his arms around blake to finish redressing the wound. The pain is awful, and Blake closes his eyes, listening to Schofield answer every question they have – at least Blake knows the men enough now to recognize their voices.

“Why?” Jondular.

“They’re attacking at dawn. We have orders to stop them.”

“How come?” Malky? Yes, the long faces fellow with the whiskey.

“They’re walking into a trap.”

There is a moment of silence as the men parse this – if the Devons were walking into a trap, then so were the Newfoundlands they were moving to aid. . .

“How many? Asks Cooke

“Sixteen hundred,” Blake answers between clenched teeth.

A more solemn silence settles over the truck.

“Jesus,” Butler mutters as he hauls himself back to the bench with a huff.

“And they only sent you two?” Rossi asks, sounding scandalized. Blake nods, and Schofield makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“Bloody General started quoting poetry when we asked for more,” Blake says, dragging himself to sit upright again.

“Typical.” Murmurs Malky, shoving his whiskey at Schofield – the man takes it gratefully and tips his head back for a large swig. Schofield finds Blakes stare and offers the whiskey to him.

“Nah,” he says, holding up his hand. “I’ve had enough.” He adds, making a few of the men chortle.

There is a pause as the men all think over this new information; the mood now very dower.

“You’ll never make it.” Private Cook says, his expression somewhat distraught as he thinks over the odds.

“Yes,” Blake says, flatly. Cooke turns to fix the younger man with a skeptical look, but he almost blanches at the determination burning in Blake's eyes. “We will.”

He says it with the same tone he used hours ago, stubborn and determined, he struggled to believe it now, considering all that’s gone wrong already but. . . he won’t fail.

He refuses to fail.

Quiet invades the truck again, and the men all turn to look out over the countryside as it passes them, another burned farm, more dead livestock.

“Look at it.” Rossi spits in disgust. “Fucking look at it... Three years fighting over this.” He gestures out the back, shaking his head. “We should have just let the bastards keep it!” the man then turns to his compatriots a look of forlorn. . . confusion on his face.

“I mean, who machine guns cows?”

“Huns with extra bullets?” answers Malky sipping at his whiskey and shaking his head.

“bastards.” Hisses Rossi looking properly disgusted at the sight.

Blake frowns impressively, and reaches into his pocket – he finds the leather envelope and checks the letter inside- it's unchanged from the day's trails and Blake nods, tucking it back inside its waterproof shelter.

“Clever” voices Jondular nodding once. He explains himself when the men turn to look at him. “They know if they do not shoot the cow – _you_ will eat it.”

Rossi nods – as does Blake: it’s a fair point, as Blake felt like he could eat a whole cow at the moment.

“Still bastards,” Rossi mutters.

“Yeah.” Pips Malky. “It's not even our bloody country.”

There is silence for a long moment, and Blake speaks up.

“I’d rather fight them here,” he mumbles. “In some Frenchman's garden- not my mums.”

Some of the men nod and mumble in agreement.

“Not me.” Starts Cooke leaning back on the bench. “If those Hun bastards roughed up me mums peonies. . . ” he pauses, making a face that hinted at some prior incident. “Well…. let's just say the war would be over by now.”

Blake and several others find themselves chuckling, and nodding.

“Yeah, lord help any Fritz dumb enough to cut down _my_ mum's orchard.”

“Your moms got an orchard?” asks Butler in a tone which says: ‘I’m not the only one?’

Blake perks ups, smiling.

“Cherries! What’s your mum's grow?”

* * *


	10. Chapter 8

* * *

Peaslee returns to the lorry shortly before the caravan is made to move away again. Gale has forced herself to eat more, with Burton being kind enough to give her some water.

"Has she stayed awake this whole time Burton?" Peaslee inquires as he settles down on the bench again. Burton answers affirmatively, shaking the flask of soup from Colonel Collins- it’s nearly empty. The officer hums, pleased with this and takes his seat.

"It seems those boys you went with are going to cross here."

Gale perks at this, she turns her head to look out the back of the truck. The road turns just slightly, and for a moment, she can see a bridge.

She watches as the two men clamber atop the bridges angled steel, slowly picking their way across its span. Arms outstretched as they toddle along. Gale thought she saw one of them lurch suddenly, and she hopes neither of them fell.

"Wouldn't that be dangerous?" she asks, turning her head away. "What about the Germans?"

The trucks rumble on, carefully weaving around shell holes, and neither Peaslee nor Burton answer for what seemed like minutes. Gale wants to press them but, similarly, did not want to look fretting. She leans back against the lorry again and did her best to keep her eyes open

If she took inventory of herself, she noted that her vision had improved some, which means that her sight loss should be temporary- A good sign! One couldn't very well nurse with only one good eye. The ringing faded from her ear, or perhaps she had grown accustomed to it? She hoped it was the former, as nursing with only one ear might prove difficult.  
Her head still ached, but the effects of the Aspirin ground down the edges. She was confident they had morphine, but the surgeon must have decided not to use it.

"Another Sister Milby?"

Blinking, Gale looks to Peaslee, another small stamp pressed between his fingers. She put up her hand to take it, pauses, and let her mouth fall open with a little huff.

Peaslee chuckles as Gale all but keened at the flavor, and he tucks the wallet away again. Gale took the opportunity to look at Peaslee more closely. He was a Medical Officer, but what was his rank? Her eyes flicker down to his shoulders for the answer.

But her search was interrupted by the sudden series of cracks and pangs.

Peaslee was alert in an instant; shouts rose from all over the caravan.

“Sniper!”

“Germans!”

“Platoon! - "

"We're being ambushed! -

" - Make ready!"

The engines roar in response to the alarm, and soon the men in the caravan return fire. Some were leaping from the trucks, others rucking up the canvas and shooting from beneath it.

Burton pulls Gale to the floor, covering her body with his as she let out a startled yelp. He hisses curses over her head as the truck is peppered with bullets.

Shattering glass.

Gale felt the lorry _turn_. A shout rose from the front: something panicked and indiscernible.

There was a sharp lurch, and the wheels bounced. Peaslee screams at the two under his care to get out.

Get out?

She’s being dragged to her feet. Then the lorry tips backward, pulling Gale back with it. She sees blue skies and falls.

Gale hits Peaslee's chest before they slam into the crates stacked in the lorry, the noise of their impact covered by the much louder sounds of the truck meeting water.

Gale's eyes snap shut, and she losses herself to spinning as Peaslee and Burton scramble. They clamber up the sides of the Lorrey, trying to reach safety as the truck began to right itself- at the bottom of the channel.

The sudden clash of cold water splashing Gale's legs made her gasp, the shock driving her eyes open.

But it did not stop the spinning.

Some unknown force told Gale to stretch her hand outward; she was met with air for a split second before the iron grip of a man's hand slams around her wrist. There is screaming pain from the gash in her arm, and she feels something _tear_. She cries out at the pain and goes rigid as the man starts to pull her up. But just as suddenly, he lets go again.

Her arm is caught on the unforgiving surface of concrete, and she screams as Peaslee pulls her back into the lorry. There is a brief sound of the truck scraping its back-end on the wall of the canal, and then water invades the back of the truck.

They flop backward, and water rapidly fills the lorry from all sides, pushing Gale and Peaslee in an icy torrent.

"Can you swim, Sister?" he asks urgently, the water swelling to their chest. Gale does not have time to answer, the dark liquid lapping at her chin. She cannot see, she doesn't know where she is.

They're trapped.

They're going to drown.

If instinct didn't tell her to hold her breath, Gale would have wept. She sucks in as much air as she can, mouth clamping shut the moment before the water washes over her head.

It was the single, most horrifying thing she’s ever experienced. She forces her eyes open as her body began to flounder- the water was dark, murky, and stung the eyes. The only sign of where to go was a discoloration of brown, like cola, which stood from the black.

There is a form, like a man, pulling at the light, making it larger, and bubbles of air float up into it.

She moves for the light- fear of death giving her movements speed. But that was tempered by her dressings, the wet fabric dragging her down, slowing her arms and legs.

Her chest felt tight.

Feeling more than seeing, she found the lorry's arching metal frame. She swirled in the water, using the purchase to drag herself upwards. The pressure in her chest is growing unbearable, and a mouthful of precious air is lost to the foul waters.

She continued to kick and claw and fight for the surface.

Her lungs were going to burst.

She couldn't move fast enough, her dress pulling her down and tangling about her limbs and she _can't_ \- air bursts from Gales mouth and water takes its place, her movements become more and more frantic, and she can't stop herself from sucking water into her lungs.

Her hand breaches the surface, and with one last effort, Gale drags herself to the surface.

_Air_

She coughs and coughs, water splashing at her mouth and making her sputter, but moments later, She is pulled under by the weight of her dress, her mouth filling with water - She fights again, everything is burning, and there is no strength in her limbs as she pulls for the surface- she spits the water from her mouth again, taking in one gulp of air as she's dragged down once more. 

Its all she can do to stay afloat- her limbs fumbling in the water and she can only take one sputtering breath at a time. 

_Gunfire._

The noise is distracting: Gale looks about blearily, finding the bank. She sees Burton and a man she doesn’t know scrambling across the water, the steep walls of the channel making it impossible to climb out unaided.

Men poured from the vehicles- unburdening the trucks as they tore away as quickly as possible on treacherous roads. Behind her, an unknown force of Germans pelted the Tommies with lead.

Some of the men moved from the bank, leaving themselves exposed in a valiant attempt to help the men in the water.

This was quickly proven a fatal error, and a sniper immediately dispatched one of them, sending his body flailing into the black waters...

She watches the fighting, her head bobbing up and down in the water as she struggles, she can't reach the bank, she could hardly keep her mouth above the water.

But she does let out a shriek when arms suddenly wrap around her and start to pull her back.

"It's me, Sister!" calls Peaslee, breathless and panting with effort. Bullets slap the water all about them as he started to swim. Gale was left helplessly watching the boys at the bank.

Suddenly, Peaslee lurches, a shocked gasp escaping him, and for a brief moment, he sinks beneath the surface- he returns with a pained scream and struggles to keep moving. The medic labors to pull Gale to the opposite bank.

There is no ladder or slope for them to clamber onto - the dark wall of the channel left some distance to safety—Gunfire streaks across the canal at the rapidly retreating form of the caravan.

Gale spots Captain Smith as he brings the men to order - the tommies fall in formation, some kneeling others standing behind them- Smith levels his pistol across the water and shouts.   
A volley of British gunfire streaks across the channel - the nurse is distracted a moment as the unseen Germans cry out in pain; there are splashes and thuds around the nurse.

Gale becomes aware that Peaslee's warmth is no longer at her back, turning her head. She sees only the stone wall.

Then hands grab at her hips.

She lets out a short wail, her arms flailing as she's lifted from the water. Her hands slam down on the lip of the wall, gripping at the stone until her limbs shake.

Gale doesn't know where she finds the strength, but in moments she's hefted herself out of the water, her dress heavy, and she heaves from the effort.

Despite her exhaustion, she turns around and puts an arm down over the edge, searching for Peaslee.

The man's hands snap around her wrist, and it takes another bought of unfound strength for Gale to hold steady and pull as Peaslee scrambles up the wall.

As the man pulls himself out of the water, Gale sees the large stain of red on his back, and she hears the bubbling of aggrieved lungs. Peaslee coughs horrendously once he's on the bank, his body shaking.

CRACK

A bullet slaps into the water near them, and Gale finds herself trying to drag Peaslee back towards the next wall. She didn't have any weapons, and Peaslee didn't either- if the Germans came this way, there was nothing they could do but beg for clemency. 

_Again – Not Again!_

She searches the other bank, finding only Smith as he stares across the impasse. Then have fallen back, dragging the injured with them. Gale sees khaki-clad bodies on the bank and in the water. She can't see his expression, but the man lingers just long enough to let her know he regrets his ineptitude.

A hail of bullets come for the Captain, and he’s forced to duck behind the bank's slope.

It feels an awful lot like a dismissal to Gale, and she nearly weeps in desperation. Only she doesn't; a Nursing Sister doesn't cry in front of the Boys.

Never in front of the Boys. 

The fighting drags on after this-but to Gale, it fades away, her world shrinking to be nothing more than the man at her side.

  
Her heart thunders in her chest, and Peaslee starts to fade. She scrounges through his pockets, finding dressings to stop his bleeding. She finds the red envelope and flips it open. Multiple packets were inside, one holding morphine. She starts to scramble for it when Peaslee's hand comes to rest on her wrist.

The two share a look, and Gale slowly lowers the envelope to the ground.

"Try to breathe steadily," she instructs, setting the thing aside to make room for more useful tools.

Peaslee nods, knowing what to do, but was unable to comply. A horrible cough rips up his throat, and it sends him into a fit – he couldn’t breathe, and a bloodied froth forms on his lips as his body fought for every ragged breath.

Gale let out a sigh, she crumples in on herself, bowing down to rest her forehead on Peaslee's.

Already death is making his body cold.

"I'm sorry." She whispers, snarling at the hopelessness of it all.

Peaslee moves his hand, pawing at Gale until she takes his hand in hers.

"N-no Sister," he starts, struggling. " _I'm_ sorry." He tries to smile, “ I won’t be able to. . . show you the Newfoundl-“ His words are cut short by another fit, and whatever argument Gale was going to raise was cut short.

They were suddenly joined on the bank- a German soldier, his body hitting the concrete with a wet thud.

She stared a long moment, and the German stared back, gasping and shaking for several horrid moments until the last of his life faded from his eyes.

She prayed for him.

"S-Sister."

She turns back to Peaslee, doing her damndest to hide her frown and blink away her tears. He looked so conflicted now. . . so frightened.

"I'm here," Gale assures, raking her hand through his hair. Peaslee reaches into his inner-most breast pocket. He grips at something and struggles to pull it free, his body too weak even for this. Gale takes over, pulling a leather envelope free from his jacket.

Opening the thing, Gale sees a series of letters and photographs, damp but intact. She moves carefully, pulling the photos free for Peaslee to behold. He reaches for two in particular.

"My family." He sputters, a shaking finger waving over the half dozen finely dressed folk. He looks up at Gale, pleading. "Write to them?"

"Of course."

Peaslee makes a face, his expression warring between smile and frown. Then he gestures to the second photo- a lovely woman, caught in working clothes and a sun hat, she was smudged with dirt but smiled brilliantly at the camera.

Such a pleasant sight captured- it nearly broke Gale's resolve.

"My Wife..." The dying man whispers, his voice choked with longing. "T-tell her- I'm sorry- I meant to-" He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut as emotions overcome him. He stills for a moment, his next breath delayed.

Gale squeezes his hand tighter, trying to give him some of her strength. He jolts awake again, a tremor running through him. His pallor has turned a pale grey-blue.

"Make sure she knows- that-that they know," He continues, sounding more desperate as his thoughts began to race.

There was so much he wanted to say. . .

Gale hangs on every word, determined to take on this most unpleasant duty. She burns the words into her memory:

He was sorry to leave before his parents.

Begged his siblings not to grieve overmuch-

He prayed for forgiveness from his wife.

His greatest regret is that he would not be there to help her to raise the babe.

He wept.

And Gale fought the burning in her eyes, trying to soothe a man as he grieved for himself- and all he would lose. She presses the photographs of his loved one's above his heart and called the Lord to be with them;

_“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.”_

Peaslee opens his eyes, looks to the Sister, his mouth worries in a silent sob, then, he joins her.

_As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”_

They pause. Peaslee is gripping Gale’s hand as tightly as he can as he looks to the Heavens. Gale steadies her resolve and continues:

“ _To you, I lift up my soul, O Lord, my God. Your ways, O Lord, make known to me; teach me your paths, Guide me in your truth and teach me. Remember that your compassion, O Lord, and your kindness are from of old. The sins of my youth and my frailties remember not; in your kindness, remember me, because of your goodness, O Lord.”_

Peaslee’s voice fades out, but he remains: blinking slowly at the sky. Gale wavers then presses on:

_“Good and upright is the Lord; thus, he shows sinners the way. He guides the humble to justice; he teaches the humble his way. All the paths of the Lord are kindness and constancy toward_ _those who keep his covenant and his decrees. For your name’s sake, O Lord, you will pardon my guilt, great as it is.”_

Gale looks to Peaslee- his breath slowly rattling in his chest, his warmth gone, and eyes closed. She struggled to stop the sob in her throat. Looking up, she stares out at nothing.

The world seems to fall to silence, the fighting’s stopped, and the men seemingly have gone.

Gale takes another breath- the words are catching on her tongue before she finds the strength to continue.

_“We commend you, my dear brother, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator. May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth. May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. May Christ, who was crucified for you, bring you freedom and peace. May Christ, who died for you, admit you into his garden of paradise. May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock. May he forgive all your sins and set you among those he has chosen. May you see your Redeemer face to face, and enjoy the vision of God forever.”_

When Gale looks to Peaslee again, he is still- his last breath a whisper too small to hear. But she feels it leave him. Her jaw quivers, and she looks to the sky once more.

The water on her face is warm.

_“Amen.”_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end of Part 1!
> 
> I hope everyone has been enjoying themselves and stay tuned for Part 2!
> 
> As for little tidbits this time around: Death, Religion and the role of the Church. 
> 
> As Peaslee is dying Gale performs a version of the Last Rites, where she specifically recites Psalm 25 followed by the Prayer of Commendation. 
> 
> Lieutenant Leslie gives an abbreviated version of the Last Rites to Blake and Schofield in the film, before the go into No Man's Land. As the giving of Last Rites can be performed by laypeople in the absence of a Chaplain. 
> 
> Religion and Spirituality saw a large uptick in some populations during the War and many Churches in England ( including THE Church of England) saw it as their duty to pray for the soldiers, as they feared fighting and killing may damn the souls of their loved ones to Purgatory, or worse. 
> 
> The Expeditionary Force even had their own Chaplains go oversea to perform Religious duties during the War. At the beginning of the War, the British Army only had 65 Chaplains, but by the end, there were over 3,000 serving in the BEF. 
> 
> The Chaplain's duties were EXTENSIVE and seemingly ever-growing. Despite their best efforts Chaplains were often poorly trained and earned something of a bad reputation in some areas. 
> 
> Nursing Sisters, including those in the QAIMNS, were also looked to perform some of these duties, mostly the ones pertaining to record-keeping such as tallying death tolls and writes letters of condolences to the families of fallen soldiers.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my newest work! Its been a while since I've written anything- but its good to be back. I hope you enjoy this work, and I'll see you next time - which should be next week sometime!


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